1
Emmett
GOLDEN FUR CLINGS TO the bristles of the brush as I work through Lulu’s coat. Each stroke reveals more evidence of my stepbrother’s negligence—not just the loose fur, but the unmistakable padding around her midsection. Lulu pants happily, oblivious to my growing irritation at Kade, who sprawls across the couch, his attention fixed on whatever mindless social media has captured his interest this time.
“Sit still, girl,” I murmur, guiding Lulu back into position as she tries to twist and lick my face. My hand runs down her side, feeling the extra weight that shouldn’t be there. It’s gotten worse in the past few weeks—a direct correlation to how often Kade’s been “dog sitting” while I’ve been at swim practice and our parents have been both busy with work.
I glance over at him, taking in the scene of the casual chaos that always surrounds him. Crumpled hoodie tossed over the arm of the couch. Empty soda can teetering close to the edge of the coffee table. Half-eaten bag of chips spilling crumbs onto the floor.
“You need to stop giving her so many treats,” I say, unable to keep the bite from my voice. “She’s getting chubby.”
Kade doesn’t even look up from his phone, just scrolls with his thumb and offers a dismissive, “Whatever. It makes her happy.”
My jaw tightens at my infuriating stepbrother. Twenty-one years old and still acting like responsibility is an alien concept.
“I’m serious,” I persist, removing a small tangle near Lulu’s ear. “The vet said golden retrievers are prone to hip problems. Extra weight makes it worse.”
“Christ, Emmett.” Kade finally glances up, his expression a mix of boredom and irritation. “She’s fine. Stop being such a downer. Go swim or meditate or something.”
I grit my teeth. Everything’s a joke to him—my swimming scholarship, my grades, my structured routine. Meanwhile, he’s scraping by in classes, partying four nights a week, and treating life like a big cosmic punchline.
We’re almost the same age—me just one year younger than him—and attend the same college. But that’s where the similarities end. Where I have schedules and goals, Kade has impulses and “vibes.” Where I have a five-year plan, Kade seems to operate on a five-minute one.
“You know,” I say, trying a different approach as I work the brush through a dense patch of undercoat, “just because our campus is close enough to live at home doesn’t mean you get to treat this place like a hotel.”
Kade snorts. “Says the guy whose mom does his laundry.”
“She does yours too,” I point out.
“Yeah, but I don’t pretend I’m all independent and shit.” He rolls to his side, his dark hair falling across his eyes in that messyway that somehow makes girls at parties flock to him. “At least I own my dependency.”
Before I can form a suitably cutting response, my mom’s voice calls from the main house. “Boys! Dinner’s ready!”
Lulu perks up at the word “dinner,” her tail thumping against the floor in anticipation. I dispose of the gathered fur, making sure none escapes to float around the house.
“Come on, girl,” I say, patting her side. “No treats for you, though. We’re getting you back in shape.” Tonight is our weekly family dinner at the main house—the one day a week when Kade and I are expected to put aside our differences and pretend we’re one big, happy family.
Kade stretches and stands, leaving his mess exactly where it is—hoodie, soda can, chip bag, all of it abandoned. He strolls toward the door, fingers combing through his hair in a token effort at presentability.
I take my time using a lint roller to remove the golden strands clinging to my dark jeans and blue button-down.
“Sometime today, Martha Stewart,” Kade calls from the doorway.
I ignore him, giving the living room a final once-over before following him out. Lulu bounds ahead, already anticipating table scraps despite my best efforts to train that behavior out of her.
The walk to the main house is short—just across the back garden from the tiny guest house—our parents’ idea of giving us independence while keeping accommodation costs down during college. It works well enough, except for the part where I have to share the space with Hurricane Kade.
The kitchen smells like lasagna, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation. Mom stands at the counter, slicing garlic bread while Kade’s dad, David, pours wine into three glasses—no wine for me, as I still have a few months until I turn twenty-one. Mom and David make a picture of domestic contentment—a second chance at happiness after their respective divorces.
“There you are,” Mom says, her smile warm as she looks up. Her gaze shifts to Kade, and I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. She’s never said it outright, but I know she worries about his influence on me. “Sit down. Everything’s ready.”
We take our usual places—me beside my mom, Kade beside his dad. Lulu settles under the table, strategically positioning herself between Kade and David, knowing her chances of illicit treats double this way.
“How was practice?” David asks me, passing the salad bowl.
“Good,” I reply, serving myself a careful portion of greens. “Coach thinks we have a shot at regionals this year.”
“That’s fantastic,” Mom beams with pride. She turns to Kade. “And how was your day, Kaden?”
