I tap on my desktop. The post is gone.
I pout, my frustration rising. “There are always rumours about your relationships. Even if I search Zloban Bennett right now, ten possible girlfriends will show up.”My voice dips bitter. “I and Wen don’t even exist for the world, but our brothers are in headlines every other day.”
“And you know they’re fake,” he counters, calm as ice.
Maybe. Maybe not. There can’t be smoke without some fire. Some of those rumours must have been true. But I swallow that thought, bury it deep. Because if I said it aloud, there’s a chance he’d silence every whisper, wipe every article, erase every piece of gossip. And as much as it burns me, I’d rather know about his possible girlfriends than live in complete darkness.
“Don’t think too much about it. How’s your new book going?”
“It’s going fine.”
“Did your hero find the treasure he needed to save his girl?”
I nod, still sulking.
He studies me for a few seconds. “What’s bothering you, Dove?”
Usually, his voice is a monotone, cold, measured, almost mechanical. But whenever he calls me Dove, it changes. His tone softens, a warmth leaking through the cracks of his icy composure. I like to believe that’s because he loves me more than anyone else. I only have the texture of his voice to rely on, because the content of his words is always so calculated, so precise, like responses coded into him.
“Is it the rumours?” he asks.
I shake my head, though in truth I’m exhausted. Exhausted of my own thoughts, my emotions, my feelings that I can’t seem to cage.
“I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
He nods once.
I cut the call, push away from the chair, and collapse on my bed. Staring at the ceiling for minutes that feel like hours, I realize this spiral will take me nowhere.
With a sigh, I drag myself up and decide to go downstairs, where Ma and Pa are most likely enjoying their evening tea in the garden. Wen isn’t home tonight, she’s gone to L.A. for her concert.
We came here two years ago, after Wen and I finished school and our parents shifted to D.C. Since then, we’ve been staying with Ma and Pa at their countryside farmhouse. Mama and Daddy visited us last weekend. Thanks to Ma and Pa, I don’t miss them as desperately as I feared I would.
I step into the front garden and find them sitting on the cool grass. The evening breeze carries the scent of roses from the nearby bushes. I lower myself onto the grass and rest my head on Ma’s lap.
Her fingers glide through my hair. “What happened?” she asks softly.
I sigh. “I’m not feeling good.”
“About what?”
About my brother having girlfriends. About thinking of him more than I should. About missing him so much it aches in my chest.
“Just… some plot twist in my book,” I lie.
I watch the setting sun in front of me, its golden rays spreading across the sky. “Ma, what could be the reason for someone thinking about something the whole day?”
She doesn’t answer. Concern paints her face instead, and when I glance toward Pa, his expression is equally tense.
“Is this something a boy?” Pa asks, his tone edged with hostility, almost as if daring me to say yes.
I quickly shake my head. “It’s the story of my book. It just… doesn’t leave my head.”
Pa’s eyes narrow, clearly unconvinced. I force a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Why are you looking at me like this? There’s no boy, seriously.”
Ma nods. “Of course. There’s no boy here. And I’m sure she’s not interested in our butler.”
That makes me laugh for real this time, the butler in question is just ten years younger than Pa.
