A breath shudders out of my lungs.Shit.Another nightmare. It’s the one I have the most frequently. Me trying to save Ares. Mom stopping me. Me trying to kill her—
My head throbs. The dream is mostly just wishful thinking on my part. I never got a chance to save Ares. I never knew where Mom took him after she kidnapped him. My mind fills in the blanks in the dream, so I can try to play the hero…and fail.
I might not have been in the burning forest, but what Mom said was real.You’re just like me, Josh. You always do whatever necessary to get what you want. I’m the most proud of you.She told me that so many times when I was growing up. Her blue eyes glowed with pride—and she surreptitiously rewarded mewith an extra chocolate chip cookie whenever I brought home a perfect one hundred on a test. Or did well in athletics. Except now I understand she wasn’t proud of my accomplishments.
She just loved the fact that every time she looked at me, she saw the core of herself reflected. The triumph in her eyes when I raised the knife in the dream says everything. She rejoiced every time I single-mindedly focused on whatever I needed to do, including that one time when I punched an older kid who kept picking on Bryce after I told him to back off. Dad said that violence wasn’t the answer…but Mom secretly gave me an extra chocolate bar.
She said Ares was too rigid, Bryce too soft-hearted. I’d rather be rigid with a soft heart than somebody like her—a complete sociopath who thinks nothing of drugging and kidnapping her own children.She left Ares to die in a fire.Thankfully he survived, mostly intact. She claimed she didn’t mean for it to happen, but I don’t believe her.
I don’t believe anything she says. My mother—Zoe Dunkel—is a fucking selfish liar.
Decades-old loathing churns in my heart, along with fear—that maybe she’s right. That deep inside, where it really counts, Iamlike her.
I flex and unflex my hand. I can still feel the smooth handle of the sashimi knife, the perfectly balanced steel. When I was fifteen, my stepmother Akiko used a hand-forged knife to slice open a bluefin tuna. It glided through the thick, resistant flesh like it was cutting through water. While she marveled at how wonderfully crafted the knife was, I was wondering how well it would slice something that wasn’t tuna.
When I learned Mom was secretly interfering in my dating life, I almost used it on her. Fueled by teenage hormones and impulses, eliminating her and the emotional turmoil her existence represents seemed like the perfect solution. If Areshadn’t happened to send me a text at the precise moment I stood across from the hotel she was staying at, the knife clenched in my hand, I might’ve taken a step I could never undo.
Shaking off the old memories, I put on shorts and head to my basement gym. It has no windows, just walls covered with spotless mirrors and black rubber matting on the floor. A heavy bag hangs from the center of the ceiling. The fluorescent lights make me look unnaturally pasty—like I’m anemic or something.
I stare at my face. It looks exactly like Bryce’s. The same slightly slanted dark eyebrows. The straight, high-bridged nose. The chiseled cheekbones from our mother, and our father’s strong jawline. I step closer to the mirror. Just where does Mom see herself in me? Is it the eyes? The gray of our eyes came from the Huxley side of the family.But she never thought Bryce was like her.
There must be something in mine that says I harbor darkness like her. Swallowing, I look away from the reflection.
On the bag, at about shoulder height, is a photo of Mom and me from my toddler years. She smiles straight at the camera—that soulless smile that never reaches her eyes unless she’s hurt somebody.
My eyes are on the smile as I tape my hands and do a few warm-up stretches. Then I go at the bag, taking out all my rage and fear on the rough canvas. My breathing sounds loud in my ears as punches and kicks make the bag jerk on its chain. Mom’s smile doesn’t change. Still soulless, still eerie.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
I pummel the bag until I start to get sloppy from the exertion. Rivulets of sweat pour down my face and body, my hair stuck to my skull.
Finally, I stop, stretching again, harder this time, while my muscles are warm. I towel the sweat off the floor, then run my fingers along Mom’s face, trace the smile I loathe.
“One of these days,” I whisper, “I’m going to show you I’m nothing like you.”
Her smiling face seems to mock me.A laudable goal, sweetie. But are you capable of it?
I lock the door behind me and take a cold shower. Still, my gut burns uncomfortably. The images from my nightmare keep flashing in my head, pushing away the peace I need to function during the day.
I put on a robe and head to the meditation room. A stone path cuts the space from the door to the seating area in the center, floored with tatami mats flown in from Japan. A rock garden occupies the rest of the space, with windows on two sides to let in the sun. The pale gravel is raked like a river surrounding the center. A few bigger rocks add variety, some arranged like mountain ranges and some like cliffs. I purposely created this in my home because I once found a modicum of calm at the rock garden in Ryoanji with my late Japanese grandmother.
I sitseizaon the mats, butt resting on my heels, then heat some water in the small cast-iron pot, whisk up some matcha and serve it to myself. The soft, grassy scent of the tea helps with focus. I try to empty my mind and concentrate my attention on the frothy tea, its intense flavor spreading on my tongue, and the air filling and leaving my lungs. With each breath, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease a little. Still, a remnant of the fear lingers. And violent urges from the nightmare continue to nip at me.
I take the final sip of tea and exhale. Frustration bubbles that the gym workout and meditation failed to settle my mind.
I bite back a curse, get up and get ready for work. It’s necessary to select my mask with deliberation—to contain my urges and show only a civilized veneer to the world.
The careful styling of my dark hair. A crisp white shirt. Silver cuff links in the shape of wolf’s heads with ruby eyes. Amuted burgundy tie with a Novotny knot. A navy three-piece suit by Lorenzo Cifonelli. Hand-stitched shoes, laced straight and polished to a mirrorlike perfection.
Now I no longer look like a potential monster, but a successful lawyer. The kind of civilized person who upholds the law.
I run my hand over the silver cane hanging in my walk-in closet, from the knob in the shape of the wolf’s head to the long, slim body. My fingertips linger over thePietas et unitasetched on the side in fancy filigree. It’s a reminder of who I am and how I should live my life. To protect my family against my mother and her schemes. Perhaps from myself, if I really am anything like her.
It’s not quite eight by the time I arrive at Huxley & Webber, the family’s law firm and legacy. The floor is half full with over-caffeinated lawyers, ready to destroy the opposing counsel one argument at a time. The firm thrives on ambition. Those who can’t feed off it don’t last for long.
“You’re late,” Bryce says as I step out of the elevator. My twin’s already got a cup of coffee in hand—probably his second. He’s addicted to caffeine, and coffee is his vice because nobody in the States can brew green tea to his taste. He got spoiled by our grandmother’s tea, but then, she was a master of the Japanese tea ceremony.
I’ve never told him I can make tea the way she could. If he knew, he’d be over at my place every morning. But I need my meditation time to center myself before starting each day. I can’t afford to slip and show my dark side to anybody, especially anybody in my family. And most especially not to Bryce, who even our own mother said was the good boy.
