I shift my weight. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“I know you didn’t,” she says quickly. “I’m not blaming you for being good at what you do. I’m blaming her for acting like what I do doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” I say. “Your theatre stuff matters.”
She rolls her eyes. “My theatre stuff.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” she says, then she looks at me again, and this time there’s no anger, just tired frustration. “Do you know how exhausting it is to always feel second?”
“That’s not how it is,” I say, but it sounds weak even to me.
“It is,” she insists. “And the worst part is, I feel guilty for even saying it because you’re my brother and I love you. But sometimes I just want her to look at me the way she looks at you.”
I step closer. “Zee.”
She shakes her head. “No, let me finish. Tonight is supposed to be about you. I know that. But it feels like I’m a non-factor.”
I rub a hand over my face. “You’re not.”
“Then why does it always feel like I’m clapping for you while no one claps for me?”
“I clap for you,” I say quietly.
She looks up at that.
“I always clap for you,” I remind her. “I sat through that three-hour experimental thing where you screamed in German.”
She huffs despite being mad. “It was Brecht.”
“It was bloody loud,” I reply. “And I was there.”
Her expression softens slightly.
“And when you do that off-Broadway part,” I continue, “I’m flying out. I don’t care where I am. I’ll be there.”
Za searches my face, trying to decide if I’m just saying what she wants to hear.
“You mean that?”
“Yeah.”
She studies me for another second, then nods once.
“Just… don’t let her turn us into competition,” I said quietly. “I don’t want you to resent me for something that isn’t our fault.”
“I won’t,” she sighs.
I pat her on the back. “And if she ever says something like that again, I’ll handle it.”
Za’s brows lift. “You? Handle Mum?”
“I can try.”
That earns the smallest real smile of the night from her. From the kitchen, Mum calls my name again, louder this time.
Za rolls her eyes. “See?”
