“I’ve got work to finish,” I said, gesturing to my desk. “I’m on a deadline, so I need it quiet.”
“Sure, sure.” He waved a hand dismissively, eyes still on the TV. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
Another lie to add to the collection.
I retreated to my desk, trying to ignore the presence of Kent sprawled across my couch six feet away. My laptop was still open to the project I’d been working on—a logo redesign for a local brewery. The deadline was Friday, which gave me three days. Three days that would now include Kent’s commentary, Kent’s mess, and Kent’s entire existence invading every corner of my carefully constructed life.
I put my headphones on and tried to focus on the screen, but I could feel his eyes on me. When I glanced over, he was staring.
“What?” I asked, pulling one headphone off.
“Nothing.” He looked back at the TV. “Just weird seeing you all... grown up, I guess.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. I put my headphones back on and stared at my screen, at the logo that suddenly seemed completely wrong, all of it wrong, everything wrong.
This was going to be the longest two weeks of my life.
I tried to work for another hour, but it was useless. Every click of the remote, every shift of Kent’s weight on the couch, every breath he took seemed magnified tenfold. The logo on my screen blurred into meaningless shapes. I saved my work and closed the laptop.
“I’m going to bed,” I announced, pulling off my headphones.
Kent glanced at his phone. “It’s nine-thirty.”
“I get up early.” Another lie, but a necessary one. I couldn’t sit here pretending to work while he watched TV like we were roommates who’d chosen this arrangement.
“Suit yourself.” He’d found a basketball game and was already absorbed in it, his earlier interest in me apparently exhausted.
I went through my nighttime routine in the bathroom, brushing my teeth while staring at the soggy box in my tub. I could see a corner of fabric poking out—a shirt maybe, or a towel. The cardboard was already starting to fall apart, pieces of it floating in the murky water.
When I came out, Kent hadn’t moved. I climbed into my bed and pulled the covers up, turning to face the wall. The apartment was too small for any real privacy. My bed was maybe fifteen feet from the couch. I could hear everything—the announcers on the TV, Kent’s occasional grunt of approval or disappointment, and the creak of the couch springs when he shifted position. It was almost overwhelming.
I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep, but my mind kept circling back to the same question. Why did I sayyes?
I could have told him no. I should have told him no. I didn’t owe Kent anything, certainly not after the way he’d treated me. But when he’d said, “unless you’re too good for family now,” something in me had crumbled. That same pathetic part of me that had always wanted his approval, wanted him to see me as an equal instead of a target.
I was still that scared sixteen-year-old, apparently. Still desperate for scraps of validation from someone who’d never once shown me kindness. I felt pathetic.
The TV volume dropped suddenly, and I heard Kent’s footsteps cross the hardwood floor. The bathroom light clickedon, and I heard him rummaging through the medicine cabinet. A few minutes later, the toilet flushed, and he came back out.
The apartment went dark except for the glow from the TV, now muted. I felt the vibration through the floor as Kent settled back onto the couch. Springs creaked. He sighed long and heavy.
I waited for sleep that wouldn’t come, listening to my stepbrother breathe in the darkness, and wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
Around midnight, I gave up on sleep entirely. I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to Kent’s breathing even out into something deeper. He’d fallen asleep with the TV on, the light flickering blue and white across the walls. The remote had slipped from his hand onto the floor.
I sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak, and looked over at him. In sleep, he looked different. Younger, maybe. Less angry. His face had gone soft, his mouth slightly open, one arm thrown over his head. For a moment—justa moment—I could almost see the older stepbrother he’d been before he’d decided I was worth hating.
Then I remembered the names. The shoves. The way he’d “accidentally” spilled an entire beer on my laptop the summer I was nineteen. I shook my head, trying to force the moment to pass.
I slipped out of bed and padded quietly to the couch, reaching down to grab the remote. As I straightened up, Kent shifted, and I froze. His eyes stayed closed. I turned off the TV, and the apartment plunged into darkness, broken only by the streetlight filtering through my curtains.
Back in bed, I pulled out my phone, keeping the brightness low. I had three texts from my friend Melissa asking if I wanted to grab drinks tomorrow night. I typed out a response.Can’t. Family emergency.Then I deleted it and wrote another.Can’t. Have a guest staying with me.That was closer to the truth, evenif “guest” was a generous term for Kent forcing his way into my life when he wasn’t wanted.
I scrolled through my messages, not really reading them, just needing something to do with my hands. My mom had texted earlier.Hope you’re having a good week, sweetie!She didn’t know her stepson was currently drooling on my couch. I wondered if I should tell her, then decided against it. She’d just worry, or worse, she’d think this was some kind of reconciliation. Some healing moment between stepbrothers who’d never really been brothers at all.
Another message popped up, and I clicked on it instinctively. My dating app popped up with a message from a guy marked so close that he must’ve lived in my same apartment building. He didn’t even bother to say hello. Instead, he got straight to the point by sending me a picture of his cock. Underneath was a simple message.
Him: You looking?
