“Not every human male on this planet sees me as a platonic little sister!” she says finally, fumbling for the door handle as the first wave of tears spills down her cheeks. “You’re just going to have to get used to it!”
With that, she slams the door and sprints up to the house, her strides weaving like a rum-soaked pirate. I wait to start the engine until she’s securely inside, door locked behind her, porch light extinguished. Leaving me alone in the dark night.
“Fuck!” I yell, slamming my fist against the steering wheel so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. “God fucking dammit!”
It takes all my strength not to peel out down the driveway. To keep my tires at a gradual crawl. Messing up the pea-stone won’t make me feel better. It will, however, make more work for my father in the morning.
Dramatic exits aren’t as satisfying when you think about the groundskeeper responsible for cleanup duty.
Leaving the circular driveway behind, I branch off onto the smaller route that leads past the swimming pool and tennis court, around the guest house, all the way to the wooded edge of the property. It is here, far inland, away from the coveted water views and prime real estate, hidden by a thick grove of maple trees like a blemish behind an artfully placed hat, that we make our home.
Gull Cottage — so named by the fading, hand-carved sign hanging above the front door — is a small, single-story dwelling with a simple farmer’s porch. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, no frills. Built in the mid-1960s, it lacks the historical flare of the main house, as well as the creature comforts.
But it’s home.
I park my truck next to my father’s in the small clearing on the side of the cottage. My shiny, souped-up, black Ford F-150 — a blatant bribe from the scouts at Vanderbilt last spring, after they came to see me pitch — looks even more ridiculous sitting beside the beat-up pickup Pa’s been using to get around the grounds for as long as I can remember. I eye it pitifully as I walk past — chipped paint, nonexistent suspension, evidence of a hard-day’s labor still sitting in the leaf-strewn bed.
Jo’s dad drives a brand new Tesla. Just brought it home last month.
Inside, the lights are off, my parents long-since asleep in their room. But Ma’s left the dim bulb above the stove burning for me, along with a plate of something that smells too good to pass up.
She knows I’m always starving when I get home late.
Peeling back the foil, I find homemade empanadillas. They’re cold but I shove one in my mouth anyway, far too impatient for the microwave. Still chewing, I put the plate of leftovers in the fridge, flip off the stove light, and walk down the short hallway, passing Jaxon’s darkened room on the way to mine.
I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Jax is the reason my life is so screwed up right now. I have every right to hate him. But there’s a part of me that can’t turn away from my brother, even after everything he’s done to tear our family apart. To threaten all my parents have worked so hard for. To jeopardize not just his own future, but mine as well.
I beeline straight for the bathroom. I need to shower Sienna off my skin; to wash away my sins with scalding water. Even on the hottest setting, it’s not enough to make me feel any better. I stand beneath the spray until it runs cold, leaning back against the tile wall and trying to forget.
All of it.
The scrape of acrylic nails against my skin. The cloying smell of artificial strawberries. The look in Jo’s eyes. The break in her voice before she climbed out of my truck and slammed the door.
Not every human male on this planet sees me as a platonic little sister!
Christ, if she only knew how I see her… how she makes me feel… the things I’d like to do with her… to her… she’d never use the word platonic around me ever again.
The clock on the desk in my messy bedroom declares 3:36AM in its scornful red glow. I have to be at the field in five hours, ready to pitch. Coach is already going to be in a foul mood, seeing as half the team will be showing up hungover and his star pitcher has a set of swollen