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Our dad is in the stands when I arrive.
“How’s Brody playing?” I ask as I take my seat beside him.
“Tight. He’s already managed an assist.”
“Good. Good.” I scan the seats for scouts, since they can show up any time, but it’s just parents and a few groups of teenage girls. “We’re still good to go out for dinner on Thursday?”
“Yup, his practice ends at six thirty.”
“I’ll try to make it to the arena. Oh, and I think I’ve picked out his birthday present. I just want to ensure it’s the right color.”
“It’s pretty ostentatious,” Dad comments wryly.
“Yeah, I know. But he’s been trying to save up, and with his hockey schedule, fitting in a part-time job is next to impossible. I have connections, so I’ll get a good deal on it. Besides, I did something similar for Nathan, so it’s all about equity. I’m hoping it takes the sting away if Susan forgets to send him a fucking birthday card.”
“She’s proven herself highly unreliable in that regard,” Dad says quietly.
Is buying my brother a car for his eighteenth birthday over the top? Maybe. But Susan, our mother who doesn’t deserve that title, hasn’t sent a card since he was ten. The only acknowledgement we get from her that we exist is a single Christmas card sent to my dad’s house every year. There’s never a phone call, a note, an email, or even a damn text message. I’m pretty sure she has her assistant write the card for her. She left when Brody was only four years old, so at least his memories of her are vague, and his expectations are low.
It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s been fourteen years since she walked out on us without looking back. Or that I stopped getting a call from her on my birthday only two years after she left. There’s still this idiotic piece of me that wonders if one year she’ll remember she has three sons and do more than nothing. But I’m not holding my breath.
So yeah, a car is definitely extra, but we make a big deal out of birthdays, so the hole of disappointment she’s created doesn’t swallow us up.
CHAPTER 4
RIX
The next morning, I’m sitting at the kitchen island with my laptop, sipping coffee and scouring the internet for a job. I plan to ask Flip if I can play around with his financial portfolio. It’ll add dimension to my resume. Rage-quitting means I can’t use my previous employer as a reference. Even putting them on my resume could lead to questions, since I was only there for three months.
Living here is not a long-term solution. Especially since it seems my brother has a habit of bringing home random women and having exceptionally enthusiastic sex until two in the morning. It was nice of him to put up the comforter curtain, but it’s far from soundproof. Thank God for noise-canceling earphones. They drowned out most of the screaming and moaning last night. Except between songs. I can’t do anything about that.
My phone pings with a new message, and my heart clenches. It’s Rob. We haven’t communicated since my whole drunken-voicemail episode. I have enough to deal with, so I figured pretending it didn’t happen was in both of our best interests.
I hover over his contact and reluctantly open the message.
Rob
I miss you.
It’s followed by a picture of a tub of my favorite ice cream.
I don’t want to have feelings about him sending I-miss-you messages. Half the country separates us. As much as breaking up has sucked, I understand why he did it. Making a relationship work like this would have been hard, harder than he was willing to manage. That should tell me everything I need to know right there.
I still send a reply, like an idiot.
Rix
Same.
I flip my phone over, though, so I’m not tempted to continue the back and forth. Things are complicated enough without poking that wound.
At nine fifty-two, Tristan’s bedroom door swings open. My eyes stay fixed on my laptop screen. The shit I pulled yesterday was stupid. Effective, but stupid. All I can think about is the look on his face. And the way his thigh magically found its way between mine. Beyond his initial confusion, there was lust—the kind that wets a girl’s panties. This girl’s panties.
He groans. Loudly.
I continue scrolling through employment ads and remind my vagina that he’s an asshole, and my brother’s best friend, and that I should not lube up because he made a sound that reminds me of sex.
“For a hot minute, I thought you living here was a shitty nightmare,” he says as he pads across to the bathroom.
That dries up my excited vagina in a hurry. I work to shake off the sting. “Shitty nightmare is redundant. All nightmares are shitty.” I shoot the middle finger in his direction.
