Farrow edges near, histhank youwritten all over his gaze. Even before we kiss.
I skateboardinto my kitchen while dialing a number on my phone. Farrow and I split apart for lunch. He’s back in his townhouse. Keeping up appearances with Quinn. Accomplishing a few other security tasks. Like filling out his logs.
I open my cabinet and grab a bag of flaxseed chips. FaceTime rings andrings.I have no problem calling my fourteen-year-old brother twenty or fifty more times until he fucking answers.
Right when I think the call drops, the screen switches to an image of a packed freezer.
My brows bunch. “What am I looking at?” I ask, not needing to say a greeting to Xander. If my siblings don’t call me, I callthemevery day. Even if it’s just for two or three minutes.
“I’m trying to find my breakfast; I just woke up.”
I dump chips in a bowl. “It’s two p.m.”
“It’s Saturday. I would’ve slept till four if Kinney didn’t blast her screamo music in my bedroom.” In the video chat, his hand shifts the frozen chicken. I can’t lie—I miss being at home whenever I hear these small stories. Miss seeing them firsthand.
But that’s the thing about growing up, getting older—for whatever and however much I lose, I gain something new withsomeonenew.
“What are you looking for?” I ask while skateboarding to my refrigerator.
“Mom just bought more Toaster Strudles, and Luna keeps hiding them.”
Toaster Strudle War is a real Hale thing. Luna thinks that Xander purposefully chomps down all of them, but he usually saves her two that just get eaten by Kinney.
Xander asks, “What are you eating?”
I flip my camera as I grab a bag of shredded cheese and skateboard to my bowl of chips. “Nachos.”
All of a sudden, twenty frozen items cascade out of his freezer and thud to the floorboards. I hear our family dog scamper off in the background.
“Fuuuuck,” Xander curses. The camera is pointed at the mess for literally a full minute while he contemplates putting it all back. “Ughhhh.”
I’d clean it for him if I were there. “Just make your breakfast. Pick it up after, Summers.”
My nickname for my brother is a play on his X-Men namesake:Alexander Summers. Likewise, my namesake is also X-Men related.
Pietro Maximoff.
As in Quicksilver.
Xander has the Strudle box in hand and heads to the toaster.
I rotate my camera back to my face and sprinkle cheese on my chips. “So I heard you haven’t been outside in weeks.”
“Do you blame me? No one will tell mehowMom and Dad ended up being photographed from thebackyard, Moffy. The backyard, in a gated neighborhood. I’m not going out there.”
I know how they were photographed.
Farrow shared the security info with me. I get why my parents would want to keep this secret from Xander. They’re worried the truth will ramp up his anxiety.
I have the fucking power to unveil the curtains. And I have the power to hurt my brother. One choice. I could say,hey, Summers, paparazzi’s remote-controlled drones flew over the house. There may be more flying overhead if security doesn’t catch them in enough time. There’s no guarantee.
So I set the whole truth aside and say, “I don’t blame you. But you have to face the fucking world. Even if it sucks sometimes.”
“All the time,” he corrects and rips the plastic off his frozen pastry and puts it in the toaster. I slide my bowl of chips in my microwave.
“Flip your camera,” I say.
With a sigh, Xander rotates his camera, the screen showing his face for the first time. Sharp jaw structure, messy brown hair, expressive amber eyes, and aHobbitT-shirt over checkered boxers. As a child, he was lauded as a “classic beauty” and that hasn’t changed.
