She walks to the end of a long hall and throws open a door to what must be the guest room—a simple twin bed with a navy-blue blanket, an alarm clock on the nightstand, and no other décor. “You’re in here. Do not go into the other rooms.”
I try to squeeze past her, but there’s barely enough space, and for a moment we are inches apart. My hand goes to her hip,mostly to prevent us making contact in any other way, but my fingers slide against the soft skin of her exposed back in the process and…fuck.
This is not going at all how I intended.
“Please dress appropriately when we’re under the same roof,” I say, my jaw grinding as I step away. “You look like the naughty stepsister in an adult video.”
She turns on her heel and walks back down the hall. “I guess we know what you’ll be watching later, then,” she says over her shoulder.
It’s a pretty good comeback. And not as far from the truth as I’d like.
Bex
In the morning, Theo makeswhat must be an intentional racket as he gets ready for work, his way of sayingGet the fuck out of bed, you lazy bitch.Though I might be assuming it because that’s whatI’dbe saying were our roles reversed.
I pull on running clothes. I’ve been forcing myself to do small runs through the neighborhood ever since Theo told me about the marathon because, theoretically, small runs will enable me to do longer ones. I try to get them out of the way early as it’s the only way to avoid the neighbors asking how I am, in that tone implying I must be doing terribly. And Iamdoing terribly—I’ve had that nightmare every night I’ve spent under this roof since the wedding—but I’m also…mad.
I know that I’m not supposed to be. I’d never admit it aloud. But I’m so fucking mad and I’m not sure with whom. In some ways, I’m mad at all of them.
I’m mad at Jessie for all the times she’d pat my knee when I got in trouble and say, “I’m gonna let this one go”—as if it made her a candidate for sainthood. I’m mad at my father for not stepping in to parent me his own damn self. I’m mad atBronwyn for being so fucking good all the time, for being too wonderful to hate, for leavingme.
None of which I can say to the neighbors.
With my head down and my music loud, I follow my father and Bronwyn’s favorite three-mile loop. In her he finally got the daughter he wanted: motivated, well-behaved, eager to please. I don’t know if she actually liked to run or if she did it just to make him happy. Either way, I’m glad they had each other, even if it made less room forme.
They’ll never jog this loop again.
My throat swells. I still have these moments when I think Bronwyn is off cramming for finals, when I expect a call from my dad during which he’ll discuss the tomatoes he’s growing and ask if I’ve given any thought to finishing my degree. But right now, I only feel their absence.
My dad’s never going to tell me about his tomatoes again.
I can’t run and cry at the same time. I slow to a walk and veer right, toward the elementary school, and perch on a bench outside the chain-link fence.
This is the place where it was established, quite thoroughly, that I was not gifted in any way, but instead troubled, rebellious, noncompliant, oppositional. On the playground, I see the steps where I had to sit out recess for an entire week after shoving Michaela Spencer. Just beyond that is the room where I was often sent for being disruptive or talking back.
But over on the far side of the building is a classroom with stained-glass windows, a room that does not at all line up with the rest of the school or the rest of the story.
Here’s the thing that I never discuss, something I’ve never even alludedto:
I wasn’t always the black sheep.
Maybe it’s simply that youcan’tbe the black sheep whenthere’s only one of you. But when Bronwyn and I were in first grade, before my dad married her mom, I was sent to that room because I’d outpaced the highest reading group and the highest math group. A psychologist met me there multiple times to see if I was “gifted.”
Ultimately, it came to nothing. I skipped no grades; I stayed at the same school. But it needled Jessie for years, the way she couldn’t erase those facts. I never understood why she kept bringing it up, why she kept creating arguments about how the teacher just didn’t like Bronwyn or would imply that I had, at age six, somehow cheated to get ahead.
But during that year, I didn’t go to the principal’s office once. No one had ever suggested I was a troublemaker or lazy or oppositional.
I turn to run home. It seems like something I’d be better off not remembering.
• • •
Theo gets back late in a sweaty T-shirt and shorts, with a gym bag over his shoulder. He looks ridiculously good in gym clothes. I suppose he looks ridiculously good inallclothes, but the reminder that he is entirely constructed of muscles and tendons and male hormones beneath that fabric packs a punch.
That he’s one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen in my life doesn’t hurt either.
I’m back under the throw blanket, readingThe Paris Reviewwhile watchingLove Island,though I paused the latter when he walkedin.
“Do youeverget off the couch?” he asks.
