lips pout and glow, her eyes are dewy but still the most stunning mix of brown and gold. She looks scared, yet also strong.
“Court today?” I assume, my eyes sloping with empathy.
She nods.
“How do I look?” she asks again. I scan down the lapel of her jacket to the spot where her hand is needling at a button near the bottom. She drops it as soon as she sees I’ve noticed. I move my focus back up to her face.
“You look ready,” I say. My response draws a hesitant smile from her and she gives me a tiny nod.
“Be nice,” she whispers, careful to keep her words between us.
I agree with a slow blink and wait as she grabs her bag from the floor of the car and pulls it up on her shoulder. I don’t allow myself the pleasure of watching her hips sway as her heels click down the walkway into the front office, but I imagine it. I get into the car as soon as she disappears into the building and close the door behind me, knowing Hayden and I will probably sit here for a while.
Neither of us is ready to talk. Hayden has yet to kill the engine, so the car hums enough to keep the heater on and the speakers at a low buzz. I lean forward and turn up the volume to see what he’s playing, expecting his usual barrage of R&B. It’s the one place where my dad, brother and I differ in our tastes. I don’t mind it, but I never got into that part of my dad’s music obsession the way Hayden did. I think my brother spent an entire summer memorizing every lyric to, like, fifty songs.
I’m a little surprised to hear the song I sang for Abby spill through the speakers, and I narrow my eyes as I look at his phone screen.
“Branching out?” I ask.
My brother shrugs.
“Abby wanted to hear the Beach Boys this morning,” he says. My stomach tightens, a little bit hopeful and a little bit sick. Hayden’s hands fall from the steering wheel to his thighs and his head rolls against his head rest, his eyes making the slow, suspicious trip to mine. “She said you showed her Dad’s record collection.”
“Huh, yeah. Didn’t think she cared that much,” I say, trying to pass off what was a memorable thing as a meaningless one. I sense by the long, silent breaths Hayden takes while staring at me that he isn’t buying it.
Whatever. I’m not the one who threw his sibling under the bus at therapy. I think maybe it’s my turn to talk, and give him a long look.
“Oh, and hey . . . what the fuck was that shit you pulled yesterday?” My temper isn’t even a little bit controlled. I’ve gone and blended my love of sarcasm with my own boiling rage at how unfair life is being. My brother’s reaction is completely unsatisfying.
“You know how I get with conflict. I wanted to say something to end the bickering—”
“That’s bullshit,” I cut in.
His mouth shuts into a hard, straight line and all of the pretend sincerity he was trying out fades away. He shifts his head, his eyes moving to the stereo controls. After a few long seconds, he finally lifts his hand and pushes in the power button, shutting off our distraction.
“You know what’s bullshit?” he says. “What’s bullshit is that you and I are basically the same person physically, but for whatever reason, Dad has always preferred your version of us to mine.”
Wow.
“Dude, you’re way off base,” I reply. Hayden quickly laughs me off.
“I’m right on base, Tor, and deep down”—his gaze shifts back to mine and he bites the tip of his tongue, actual hate simmering in his smile—“you know I am.”
My brow drawn in, I shake my head and laugh quietly, mentally shuffling through so many times in our lives when Dad was equal with us to a fault. I’m a better player than Hayden. It isn’t even a question, and if I asked him right now, he wouldn’t be able to lie and argue with me about it. When it comes to the court, I am dominant. He is decent. But my entire life has been held back to his level because Dad didn’t want the “dynamic duo” to be split up. He didn’t want Hayden left behind. I know in my heart that my dad just wanted Hayden to feel equal, but I always felt I had