I tried.
Last night he said, angrily, it shouldn’t be so hard. He threw Ethan’s name about. How I drop everything for him. How even an ounce of what I feel for my stepbrother would have been enough for him.
We ended up in bed, but it was still just sex. Goodbye sex, this time.
It’s difficult to concentrate in my exam. I need this paper to graduate or I’ll have to take a summer course to make up my points. I’m not keen on that; I want to spend the summer with Ethan and Julia. It’ll be my last. It’ll be time to get a job. Time to move away from Mansfield . . .
My pen scratches over the paper. Stops. Starts. The words start to blur, to swim. My breathing catches, punching up my throat. My pen snaps. Ink sprays, drizzles over my palm.
I blot it away with my shirt, use my other pen. The words keep shifting.
I can’t do this. I can’t—
My chair rumbles over the wooden floors. A dozen heads swish toward the sound and swish back to their examinations. I bolt out of the hall. Into the courtyard. I gulp in the spring air.
On a warm bench, I slump and sniff.
The commerce department where Ethan studies is a block over, I can see the rooftop of his building. I want to find him. I want him to hold me and tell me everything will turn out all right in the end.
Like every time I’ve felt this way the last three years, I ignore the urge.
Halfway home, my car breaks down.
It gets towed. I walk the last ten kilometres to Mansfield.
Julia wraps her little arms around me and demands a piggyback. Her laughter is the only source of energy I have; I race her through the backyard over a carpet of browning silver pear blossoms until I’m out of breath and collapse dramatically on the grass.
“I’ll take over,” Ethan says.
I scramble onto my knees. I hadn’t heard him. He’s sitting on the back deck, ankle hooked over his knee, cap shadowing his eyes. His dimpled grin is bright in the sunshine. It grows as Julia pounces on him.
I watch as the routine is repeated, Ethan zigzagging around the yard, Julia giggling and giggling and giggling.
Later, Ethan finds me on our turret. He leans against the balustrade, mirroring me. “How’d your exam go?”
I shrug. He frowns, and I tell him.
“I’m sorry, Fin. I thought you two had something special.”
I look at him hard, like he should know this. “It was just sex.”
He glances away. “Abi broke up with me last week, too.”
I stiffen. We’re both single; there’s no fidelity fencing us anymore. A part of me comes alive at this realization but it’s easy to suffocate it. Because I’m also a little pissed. “Last week?”
He bows his head. “I wanted you to concentrate on your exams. If I’d told you, you’d have tried to make me feel better.”
I’m not sure this explanation is helpful. Did that mean his breakup . . . really hurt him? “I’m, uh, sorry. Did she tell you why?”
He grips the wood, gaze rooted on our backyard. “She mentioned a few things.” He laughs suddenly and straightens. “Do you want to go for a stroll on the beach?”
“Just you and me?”
“And Julia.”
Of course. My smile aches. “As long as you’re driving.”
I tell him about my car and it keeps me from dwelling on the lump in my throat. “It’s beyond repair.”
“Have you told Dad?”
“I mentioned it when I came home.”
“And?”
“He said I should get a job and start saving for a new one.”
Ethan frowns. “You need a car now.”
“Guess I’d better find a job, then.”
“You can’t. You have to take a summer paper after the botched exam.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage both.”
“It’s our last summer—” Ethan pushes off the balustrade and descends into the house. “You need a car, Fin.”
I follow him to Tom’s study; he bursts in, the most upset I’ve ever seen him in front of his dad. I pause outside the door.
Tom looks over his mahogany desk and gives Ethan the same explanation he gave me. “He’s twenty-two. You’re twenty-three. It’s time you learned to be financially independent.”
“Then could we have some money on loan? Fin needs a car to get to uni.”
“I’m not a bank, and if I were, I’d see no reason to loan Fin anything. He doesn’t have a job.”
“Then loan to me.”
“If you worked more than fifteen hours a week, I might.”
“I can’t handle more with my course load next semester.”
“If you decide to waste your commerce degree to go into early childhood education, you’d better understand what it means to live off very little.”
“Dad,” Ethan says quietly. “We made an agreement. I get a degree in business and then I can do what I like. This is what I like.”