Or is he nice?
seventeen
Christian
I take the tiniest step, about to make a joke about my granny speed when my lips cringe into a pained wince. Everything about my situation is horrendous. I hate being in pain. I hate being weak. I hate relying on people to help me. “Sorry, I’m slow,” I grumble. “This happens to my back sometimes.”
Portia lingers behind me. “I’m sure you'll be okay.”
I use all my strength to stand up straight as I have no desire to be vulnerable in front of her. This morning, she was doing everything she could to destroy my livelihood. She isn’t my ally. I’m only being nice to her because I need her to train El.
I pace to my side of the car, climb in, crank the engine while El jumps in shotgun, and Portia crawls in back. El reaches forward, rapidly switching the radio station, giving each station only a second to test before pressing the button again. It’s something she’s always done while I drive. It used to drive me into mocha madness, the way she pretended she owned my car. After nothaving spent much time with her this last year, it brings a wave of nostalgia. I miss spending time with her. She is quirky, doing things to bring me out of my need for control.
My nostalgia is short lived, lasting until she parks the setting on the latest hip-hop station and blasting back beats pound out of my speakers. Immediately, her duck lips glue to her face, and she bobs her head as if she is unsuccessfully trying to stretch a kink out of her neck. I shift the gear, pulling forward as the pressure in the back of my head swells. “Not happening.” I push the “off” button and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “I’ve had this headache for days, and that doesn’t help.”
She whistles, imitating a bomb being dropped.
“You have no idea the stress I’m under. I need some peace and quiet.”
“You get enough quiet sitting at the Coffee Loft all day.”
That stings, but I choose to ignore it. “Portia, what’s your address?” I don’t even glance in the rearview mirror as I wait for a reply from the backseat.
“I’m on Yellowstone Boulevard. Right around the corner from the Coffee Loft.”
“Nice.” I purse my lips in thought. I know the exact location. It’s prime real estate next to the Long Island Railroad with plenty of commercial amenities, and a perfect view of Manhattan to the west. “Do you own?”
“Rent.”
I glance at El. She’s texting on her phone. Her chest rises gradually, falling even slower. Something’s clearly up with her, but I’m not in the mood to talk. I drive forward.
“Right here.” Portia points to a driveway after a few minutes, and I pull in, and jerk to a stop in the spot closest to the door.
I stare forward at the multilevel building and gamble with a guess. “Are you on the bottom floor?”
“Nope.” She pops the P. “Tenth floor.”
“Elevator?” My back twitches just thinking about all those steps.
“It’s under construction.” She props her door open and drops one foot on the pavement. “Thanks for the ride.” Her voice softens, and she adds, “I hope you feel better.”
I rub my eye. That’s not what I expected to hear. Contrary to what Portia may think, I’m not a jerk, but I didn’t think we were being that nice to each other. While dropping a heavy sigh, I force a smile. “Thank you.”
eighteen
Christian
I walk El inside the hotel, both hands stuffed in my pockets as I’m concerned about her. She’s typing on her phone, and I see that dumb dating site open. “Chatting with random people on the internet is dangerous. You never know who you are talking to, especially since that site doesn’t verify personal info. You’d better not be pretending to be me.”
“It’s fun.” Her breezy laugh brushes away any concern. “I’m vetting the women for you. There really isn’t much on there, but there’s this one who has the same sense of humor as you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that. It’s dumb. Make your own profile if you love it so much.”
Her voice dips off as her gaze focuses on the ground ahead of her feet. “I’m not ready for that.”
Being nearly ten years apart in age, El and I never had the classic sibling rivalry of closely spaced siblings. When she was growing up, I always protected her. We talk honestly abouteverything. However, things had changed this last year with her at university. I get it. At some point you want to find your own way. I’m conservative, and she considers me, "too serious." I’m not going to pry. Instead, I offer encouragement. “So, you said before I don’t need to beat anybody up. How about blackmail?”
She doesn’t even twitch a smile. “Trust me, I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think it will help.”
