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The white-haired one, Cecily, is more like the mother hen of the group, a position that she’s been fighting Bran for.
But considering the repressing shit my brother is into, I’d give her the crown any day. Where Ava is too loud for anyone’s liking, Cecily is soft-spoken and likes to baby everyone around her.
She carefully places the contents in her arms on the table and nods at us.
The third girl abandons some drinks beside all the Indian food and walks in my and Bran’s direction. Her chestnut hair with natural blonde highlights falls to her mid-waist.
Glyndon is the only one in our family who got some of Dad’s glorious blond Viking hair, as Mum calls it. She’s over four years younger than me and likes to pretend that I barely exist.
She hugs Bran and he wraps his arms around her in a sweet, mushy, and absolutely unnecessary show of affection.
I don’t understand why neurotypical people vie so much for validation and find it vital to display care and love. It’s not that they can’t possibly survive without the tedious emotions.
“What a nice surprise,” he says when they break apart. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Ava said she needed to confirm something first.”
As in, she had to make sure Eli wasn’t within the perimeter before she decided whether or not to come over. Don’t ask how I know that. One, it’s far from being a secret at this point—even the gardener and his extended family probably know about their strange foreplay. Two, I happen to hold everyone’s lives and secrets in the palm of my hand in case of possible future use.
Glyn nods at me as if we’re colleagues in a stuck-up law firm. “Lan.”
I nod back with the same energy. “Little princess.”
Since Dad calls Mum a princess, Glyn has assumed the title of ‘little princess’.
My sister stiffens, probably thinking I’m up to no good, including, but not limited to, eradicating her boyfriend from the face of the earth.
I laugh and ruffle her hair. “Relax. You’re too uptight.”
Bran shakes his head, more in resignation than anything else, but Glyn releases a breath. She likes to pretend that her unhinged boyfriend is different from me just because she fell for him harder than a moth to a flame. But oh well. I did cause her some minor discomfort. By minor, I mean I never really showed her affection like Bran does and, instead, preferred to watch over her.
One of us had to be the symbol of austerity, and Bran definitely can’t be stern to save his life.
Besides, she never really needed that from me, and I prefer not to pretend when it comes to my family. It’s exhausting and feels empty enough as it is with the rest of the world, and they certainly don’t belong to the same category as my family.
“What do you mean there’s no fish and chips?” Remi asks Ava, then pokes her. “Are you even British? Bring out the imposter in you.”
“You brought it the other time. We wanted a change. Besides, Indian food is delish!” She pushes him away. “And stop poking me.”
“You should be honored that my lordship is even touching you, peasant.”
“I’m going to bite your head off.”
“I would like to see you try.”
I walk to them and nod at Cecily, who’s bringing out the takeout boxes. She nods back and focuses squarely on her task. She used to be in love with me—like everyone who’s had the honor to meet me. Well, notinlove, but she had a major crush on my unmeasurable charm, but like every girl with a brain, she soon realized I have nothing inside me she can reach.
It’s no secret that I’m an empty entity of anarchy and destruction. A vessel for uncharacteristically violent tendencies and artistic genius.
In fact, when those personality traits disappear, I’m nothing more than odorless air. It’s part of the reason why I’ve made mayhem the purpose of my existence. Without that, I’m an endless void.
I don’t delude myself about those facts. Some girls—including the old Cecily—do. They like to think they can fix me, and I let them hold the illusion while I break them into irreparable pieces.
What? I’m a no-strings-attached type of man who likes the adventure of new holes. It’s not my fault they think of baby names after I fuck them into oblivion.
I didn’t fuck Cecily, though. I contemplated it once but then thought of her super strict father, Uncle Xander, who would dismember me and drink my blood as the soup of the day if I were to ever go near his precious princess.
And while I possess the moral compass of a shark, I don’t like stirring the waters too close to home. My folks have been friends with Ava’s, Cecily’s, and Remi’s parents since way before we were conceived, and I supposed it wouldn’t be practical to be chased with a golf club by their parents during family dinners.
