My mother had been disappointed, but it was the look of disgust on Jonah’s face that stayed with me. He thinks I’m a coward. That I can’t perform in front of people. But he’s wrong.
I honestly don’t care what Jonah thinks. But I refuse to pretend we have some brotherly bond.
Jonah and I are complete opposites. He was the star quarterback in high school. Sports is just another type of performance, and Jonah charmed everyone with his aw-shucks attitude and boy-next-door good looks.
You’re so lucky to have Jonah as your brother.I’ve heard that over and over, but I’ve never felt lucky. It’s more like a curse.
I push back the nerves dancing in my stomach. I can’t give up now. “Mom, I was thinking?—”
“Jooojoooo!”
My head jerks up at Maisy’s squeal. She throws herself into Jonah’s arms and he swings her around. She laughs throughout, and the joy on both their faces gives me this weird empty feeling. Like I’m missing something.
I’m not the touchy-feely type. My parents were never into hugging or displaying any affection at all.
Jonah is the opposite. He’s always touching people.
When my mom gives him a warm smile and touches his arm, his face lights up. “So glad you could make it home, Jonah dear.”
“Thanks, Carolynda.”
I’m not averse to touching or being touched. It’s more like a foreign language I never learned. While it looks interesting, and there are times when I think it might be fun to learn, I don’t understand the rules or how to even start.
Jonah is the last person I would ever ask. Or want to touch.
He grins at Maisy. “I wouldn’t miss Squirt’s birthday.”
Maisy stomps her foot. “Not a squirt.”
“Is that so? Then why can I do this?” He lifts her up over his head, those muscles bulging. She giggles and thrusts out her arms like she’s flying.
I swallow my resentment. Maisy deserves all the love. And being jealous is stupid. Am I jealous that she likes Jonah better? Or that he obviously had a great childhood with loving parents and I…didn’t?
Or do I want to be lifted by those strong…? Absolutely not. Jonah is not my type. I like my men a little less clean cut and a little more alpha male taking control.
And Jonah’s my stepbrother. Even if it were possible, if I didn’t hate Jonah and he didn’t return the feeling just as strongly, I would never risk alienating everyone in this family.
“Don’t play too rough,” Mom says and then retreats to the kitchen.
Why is this so fucking hard? If I stay here wasting away, at least I have a roof over my head and my family tolerates me. I could do as my father wants and return to New York. Follow his plan. Go to college and get a practical degree in law or accounting instead of wasting my life. Of course he’d make my life unbearable the entire time. And there’s also the possibility—slim at best—that I could live up to his expectations. Make him proud.
Or I can follow my dreams to California.
As Jonah plays with Maisy, the joy in his laugh hits me square in the chest. I shake it off and follow my mother into the kitchen.
“Do you need a hand with Maisy’s cake?”
Mom is putting on her oven mitts. The ones with bluebirds flying happily. She has one on and the other is in her hand. She raises a brow. “Are you sick, dear?”
I huff out a breath and cross my arms. “What does that mean?”
“Have you ever cooked anything? In an actual oven, I mean?”
“Rude.” Ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks, I rush ahead. “I have a question.”
Her shoulders relax as if the universe is right once again. The heat from the oven spreads throughout the room as she pulls the cakes out and sets them on top of the stove. Taking off the oven mitts, she sets them on the counter and sticks a toothpick in the middle of each cake. “Almost done.”
Patience is something I lack. But I try not to fidget as she returns the cakes to the oven, removes the oven mitts onceagain, and turns to me. Nerves are a sign of weakness, according to my father. Or showing your nerves, I suppose. Has he ever been nervous? I can’t even picture it.
