Focus. You want this to end with you still getting flight lessons. Justswallow his disdain and let out all the repressed fury when you finally sledgehammer that wall in the third bedroom.
“About last Saturday—”
“You don’t need to do this.” Okay, so maybe I can’t swallow his disdain. But I think it might be easier if I’m the one to speak to it. He can give a stoic nod, and then we’ll move on. “We don’t need to talk about it. I understand that you’re helping me as a favor to Shawn. That we’re not friends and you don’t want us to be.”
“What?”
“I get it.” God, do I get it. “I would literally do anything for Shawn, too.”
Which is why I’d submitted an application to Beefies Steak House a week ago and my first shift is tonight.
George, instead of looking understanding, or maybe relieved that I said the words so he doesn’t have to, wears a deep frown that carves grooves into his face.
“I do want to be your friend.”
I bark out a laugh. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
Is this gaslighting? Feels a hell of a lot like it.
“So, you’re saying that when Karl called us friendly—not even friends, justfriendly—you didn’t back away from me like I suddenly contracted a contagious disease?”
He grimaces. “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”
“I would.”
“Fine.” He sighs. “Yes. I treated you like you had rabies. But not because of you.”
I frown. “That makes zero sense.”
George has his hands planted on his hips, his scowl directed at the ground. I swear he’s having some internal argument, and I really hope he’s not brainstorming more obvious lies.
But he surprises me by seemingly changing the topic.
“Has Shawn ever told you what it was like for us growing up? Him, Tasha, and me?”
You mean the charmed life of the legitimate BnB offspring where you never had to worry about lunch money, or holes in your shoes, or trying to sleep in a car while pretending not to hear your mom quietly cry because she blamed herself for getting kicked out of your apartment after being late on rent?
“Not in detail,” I say instead, loathing the idea of pity on George’s face if he were to realize exactly how different our upbringings were.
I doubt my brother even realizes the vast difference. We’ve always kept to surface-level stuff, having fun together. Shawn would make offhand comments about his friends or mention places they’d gone or things they’d done together if he thought I’d enjoy the stories.
But I don’t know much about what it was actually like living in the Newton household.
Is that something I should know about? Something we should talk about?
Shit, am I a bad sister for more reasons than I thought?
“Shawn is the charming one,” George says, unaware of my latest guilt spiral. “Obviously. Tasha is the smart one. The driven one.” He sighs and spreads his arms, the wingspan impressive and reminiscent of the Cessna I was just washing. “And I’m the fuckup.”
I couldn’t have heard that right.
“Excuse me?”
“Ever since I can remember, my dad talked about me getting into business with him. Becoming a shark in the industry. Learning how to make deals, buy sell trade and all that shit.” George grimaces as if the words contain a bitter taste. “My mom, always looking for the next rush, expected me to do the same. Both of them overflowing with ambition.” His arms drop, heavy at his sides. “And I had none. Nointerest. The most driven thing I did was get my pilot’s license at seventeen, but other than that? I didn’t pursue anything.” He rubs the back of his neck, and a flush creeps over his cheeks. “I was fine just coasting by. Even when my dad cut me off.”
“He what?” That version of history does not map up with the image in my head.
