CHAPTER 1
Sera
Gabe is twenty-three minutes late, which gives me just enough time to rehearse all the ways I'm going to say no.
No, I don't have extra money.
No, I can't take out a loan I'll never be able to repay. No, I can't keep lighting myself on fire to keep you warm.
I practice the words in my head while my coffee goes cold, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the chipped ceramic. The café is loud with the lunch rush, orders shouted over the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of dishes, someone's phone playing tinny music. I focus on my breathing. In for four counts. Out for four counts. The technique my college therapist taught me. I'd been forced to go after I passed out in the middle of class during junior year. I'd used my food money to bail Gabe out of jail.
That was three years ago. The first time I told myself it was the last time.
It wasn't.
Through the window, Midtown moves like it always does, a river of bodies flowing around yellow cabs and food carts, everyone with somewhere important to be. I used to love thisneighborhood. Now I just see the rent prices I'll never afford, the restaurants I'll never eat in, the life I'll never have because every spare dollar goes to cleaning up my brother's messes.
Movement catches my eye. Gabe.
Even from half a block away, I can see something's wrong. He's walking too carefully, like his ribs hurt. His hoodie is pulled up despite the unseasonable October heat, and when he gets close enough for me to see his face through the window?—
Oh God.
His lip is split, swollen and dark. His left eye is nearly swollen shut, the skin around it mottled purple and green. There are scrapes across his knuckles, and when he pulls the door open, he moves like an old man.
"Hey, Sera." He slides into the chair across from me, and I catch a whiff of stale beer and dried blood and fear. It's the fear that gets me. Gabe's always been cocky, reckless, and convinced he's smarter than everyone else. I've never seen him scared.
"Jesus Christ, Gabe." I reach for his face, but he jerks back, eyes darting around the café like he's checking for threats. "What happened?"
"Mind if I have this?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just grabs my coffee and drains it in three long swallows. His hands are shaking. "Was up all night."
"Getting your ass kicked?"
"Language." He tries to smirk but his split lip cracks and starts bleeding again. He swipes at it with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear. "What would Mom and Dad think if their perfect angel was cursing?"
The jab lands exactly where he meant it to. Our parents have been dead for six years, Dad's heart attack, Mom's cancer a year later, but Gabe still knows exactly which buttons to push. I was the good daughter. The one who gotstraight A's and worked part-time and never caused problems. He was the baby, the one who got away with everything because he was going through a hard time. His hard times never end.
"Don't do that," I say quietly. "Don't be cruel because you're scared."
Something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe, that I can still read him. Then it's gone, replaced by the defensive anger that's become his default setting.
"You asked me here," I continue. "You said you needed my help. So here I am." I glance at my watch. It's a vintage Timex I restored myself, my one nice thing. "I'm missing lunch, and I have a restoration deadline this afternoon. You're thirty minutes late and you show up looking like you got hit by a cab. So, excuse me for being concerned about my little brother."
I lean back, taking a breath. Getting angry won't help. It never does.
Gabe picks at the croissant I ordered, my only lunch. He tears off pieces but doesn't eat them, just shreds them into smaller and smaller bits. Nervous energy. I've seen it before, but never this bad.
"Look," he finally says, wiping his hands on his jeans, leaving greasy streaks. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture. I need your help."
I nod, staying silent. Make him say it.
"I need money."
The words hang between us. I could pretend to be surprised, but we both know better.
"It's not much," he continues, not meeting my eyes. "A loan. I'll pay you back. With interest."
I grip my hands together under the table until I feel the bite of my nails against skin. My nails are too short to do much damage, but the slight sting keeps me grounded. Keepsme from doing what I always do, which is immediately start calculating how I could possibly make this work.
