Page 6
DEAN
“Do you want to hear what shit your mother is trying to pull now?”
“I need a damn beer for this,” I mumble as I push my key into the slot and unlock my apartment door.
I don’t care that it’s only two in the afternoon; the tone in my little sister’s voice reeks of exasperation, and I know I’m about to hear some shit.
“Tell me when you’re ready.” I hear her take a gulp out of what I can only assume is an afternoon wine because I know my sister.
“It’s sad we’re both already drinking this early.”
“Hey! I’m at brunch. It’s okay to day-drink if you call it brunch.”
“Is two in the afternoon still brunch?”
“If it allows me to day-drink mimosas, then yes.” I picture her smirking victoriously. “Are you ready for this yet?”
“Let me get Leo back in his terrarium first.” I balance the phone between my ear and shoulder as I set him down on the countertop, popping the latches on his on-the-go hut. “We just got back from the park.”
“Aw, how is my little buddy?”
“He’s Leo—a little shithead.”
“How can a turtle be a shithead?”
“Trust me on this, Holland.” I pick him up and settle him in his home. “He’s mischievous as hell.”
“You don’t sound eccentric at all, Dean.”
“Well, shit. I feel so much better hearing that from you.”
“I am not eccentric.”
“You do have like four cats…” I make my way to the kitchen, using my elbow to turn on the water. I use the same elbow to pump soap into my hands and wash up like I’m getting ready for surgery. Ain’t no salmonella going to get me.
“They’re foster cats, you…you…butthole!”
“The fifth graders I teach have better comebacks than that.”
“That’s because they’re all young and hip. I’m old and not hip.”
I laugh, turning off the water and grabbing the dishtowel hanging off the edge of the sink to dry my hands. “Nobody says hip anymore, Holland.”
“Which proves my point.”
“You’re younger than me.”
“By fifteen months! That doesn’t count.”
“It counts, little sis.” I grab the phone with my hand again and stretch out the kink forming in my neck. I peel open the fridge and pluck out a beer.
“Are those bottles I hear clinking?”
“Those are my brunch beers, yes.” I hold the bottle up to the opener I have sticking to the fridge.
“And this is a brunch beer bottle opening.” I pop the top and instantly take a hefty swig.
Leaning my back against the counter, I cross one leg over the other.
“All right, kiddo, let’s hear it. What did your mom do now? ”
“Do you remember Brett Johnson from high school?”
“That guy who found a way to bring up his stepmom in every conversation and it started becoming way too creepy? Unfortunately, yes.”
“Beyond creepy. I just got done having my weekly face-to-face with Mom, and guess who she set me up with?”
“Gross. Why?”
“Because she hates me, that’s why.”
“Mom doesn’t hate you. It’s just obvious I’m her favorite.”
My sister laughs lightly, but I know that bit of knowledge hurts because it hurts me too.
Our parents didn’t get the whole “you’re not supposed to pick favorites” memo.
I’m Mom’s favorite, and Holland is definitely Dad’s.
We picked up on it early and settled into the reality, promising each other to never let it come between us.
Unlike a lot of siblings, Holland and I get along like two peas in a pod.
We didn’t have a choice but to lean on each other growing up in our house.
It always felt like our parents were more divorced than they were married.
It was awkward to navigate, and their favoritism didn’t do anything to help ease the tensions.
Still, we never let them affect our sibling relationship. Aside from my childhood friend Nolan—and I guess Leo, though I’d never tell her that—she’s my best friend.
“Are you going to go out with him?”
“Do I have a choice?” She groans. “You know your mother will guilt me into it either way. At least she didn’t set me up with Sutton Barnes,” she grumbles.
Even though we’ve been doing it for years, I still grin when she calls Mom my mother.
“Unless…” Holland’s taking the conversation exactly where I thought she would.
“Ah, so that’s why you called—to get me to convince Mom to let you out of this date.”
“And because you’re my favorite brother.”
“Uh-huh.” I take another long pull from my beer.
“Please, Dean? Pretty, pretty please? I don’t want to go on this date because I’m like ninety-nine percent certain this guy is boning his stepmom. Why Mom would set me up with him is beyond me.”
“Hello, his last name is Johnson. You know his bank account is large, and Mom’s kind of…well…”
“Materialistic? Always looking for a way to climb the social ladder even if it means putting her children in harm’s way? A monster?”
“Holland…”
“What? You know I’m not wrong, Dean.”
The sad part is, she’s right. Our parents aren’t awful people. They’re just…misguided by money.
When I was thirteen, we hit the jackpot.
My dad won the actual lottery, and he took the payout of about one hundred and fifty million.
A lot of money to almost anyone, but it was especially a lot of money to us, a family of four living meager paycheck to meager paycheck.
We didn’t live in The Heights—the neighborhood that seemed to sprout nothing but criminals—like Nolan did, but we were right on the line.
The money came at just the right time, and Dad was smart with his winnings. He set aside enough for college for both me and Holland, then invested the rest into a business idea he had been cooking up for years.
It worked, and in the first year, he made back twice as much as what he had invested.
Before we knew it, we were moving and starting school in the rich part of town.
“I mean, yeah, you’re kind of right,” I agree. “Except for the monster part. Mom’s not out to get you. She’s just?—”
“Sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong? Like in my dating life?”
I chuckle. “Yes, that. If it makes you feel any better, she does it to me too.”
“And look how that turned out for you!”
She means my last relationship, which ended in disaster and me moving to a different city.
Holland clears her throat. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But…does this mean you’ll help me get out of it?”
Do I want my sister dating some dude who’s clearly hung up on his stepmom? No.
Am I going to bend over backward to get her out of this date? Also no.
But I’ll talk to our mom and try to get her to budge. Holland has enough on her plate with our father ruling her life. She doesn’t need to add my mother’s meddling to the mix.
“I’ll see what I can do. You could always just not go, you know.”
“And disappoint your mother again? Since she’s still pissed at me after our last blowout, I don’t think so.”
“I can’t imagine being on Mom’s bad side is any worse than being on Dad’s shitlist.”
Which is exactly where I am and have been for the last…well, forever, it feels like.
“I wouldn’t know—I’ve never been there.”
“Must be nice.” I push off the counter and drop my empty beer bottle into the recycling bin. “Speaking of Dad…when are you going to ask him about the promotion?”
“Um…never. He’ll never go for it.”
“You never know. Doesn’t hurt to try. Besides, it’d be nice. You could move out here and get away from that town, Holland. It’s no good. Sucks you in, chews you up, and spits you out all wrong.”
“You know when you say things like that, you imply our parents are no good, right?”
“Mom is meddling in your dating life when you’re nearly thirty.”
“Dean…” Her tone tells me to drop it.
It’s the same old fight we’ve been having for years now.
I was smart enough to get away while I still could, but not Holland.
My dad has her under his control because she feels indebted to him for some reason.
It’s why she still lives in that asshole-infested community and why she’s still working as his secretary, even though she deserves a better position at the company.
Since I don’t feel like arguing today, I redirect the conversation. “When’s your date?”
“Friday night.”
“Look, I’ll call Mom tonight and see if I can start sweet-talking her into canceling it.”
She squeals loudly into the phone. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re the best big brother a girl could ask for.”
“Remember that next time I need something.”
“Please, you know I always have your back, Deanie Weenie,” she teases.
I groan at the use of the nickname I hate.
“ Now you’re pushing your luck.”
“You’re just mad because you don’t have a nickname to torture me with.”
True. “Whatever. Look, I’m gonna go. Need to shower. I’m all gross from being at the park, and I need to make some lunch. The pie I had this morning just isn’t cutting it.”
“Pie for breakfast again?”
“Says the girl drinking orange juice and champagne.”
“Mimosas are totally a breakfast food! Pie isn’t.”
“Then why does The Gravy Train sell it at breakfast?” I retort.
“First of all, that name is utterly ridiculous, and you know it. Second…you went to the diner for breakfast, didn’t you? Please tell me you did not torture your neighbor again .”
I grin. “I didn’t torture my neighbor again.”
“Liar! You should be nice to her, Dean. She’s a sweet gal.”
“How do you know? You’ve never met her.”
“She’s lived next door to you and your antics for the last year and still hasn’t murdered you. That’s a huge indication that she’s way too nice.”
I try not to roll my eyes over the fact that yet another person—my own sister, no less—is taking River’s side.
Did they ever stop to think that I torture River because she’s mean to me for no damn reason?
Sure, I’m probably way too old to be acting this juvenile, but she brings it out in me. River’s wound too tight. She needs to learn to relax and stop taking everything so seriously. She’s wearing herself down and taking it out on everyone else.
“I’ll take that into consideration next time I’m cooking up some revenge.”
Holland doesn’t bother hiding her tired sigh. “You’re something else, big brother.”
“Don’t I know it, little sister. Love you, kiddo.”