"Actually, the screwing keeps me pretty warm."
Dammit, I'm smiling. I let out a full-blown belly laugh. "Does it?"
He nods. "You really have to ask?"
No, I don't. But I don't like thinking about Ethan with other women.
Dammit, I'm hot. I need to leave before I do something I'll regret. "Thanks for the tea." I dig my car key out of my wallet.
"Anytime." He nods goodbye.
I slam the car door shut but it doesn't shut out his presence. Even after I drive all the way home, Ethan sticks around in my head and my heart.
Ethan Strong, rock star guitarist, does not want me. Not the way I need him to. Guys like him, like the new Ethan, use girls like me.
No matter what happens, I can't fall for him again.
At home, I change into one of my favorite dresses and I perfect my makeup. Smokey eye in warm shades of purple, a little concealer, blush, dark lipstick. I'm ready to go out but I can't bring myself to leave the house.
I spend the afternoon hiding out in my bedroom with my e-reader. I'm not sure who I'm hiding from. My parents are at work. Asher was my only sibling. No one else is here.
When I get stir crazy, I move into the hallway. It's the same as it's always been— beige walls, beige carpet, old hinges that creek far too much.
Asher's room is next to mine. The door is half open.
So much of that room is the same. It has the same movie posters—he loved pretentious French films and he would go on and on about The 400 Blows and The Bicycle Thief. He had the same taste in movies and books as Dad—this nihilistic stuff about how life is awful and it's hard being a man. I can't say I ever got it, though I did try.
His desk is still topped with the stack of books his favorite literature teacher recommended. She was fresh out of getting her Teaching Credential and he had a massive crush on her—not just because she was cute, though she was, but because she was smart and deep. It was very teenager, falling for the insightful teacher.
I move downstairs before I give into the temptation to go into his room and dig through his things. My parents' house hasn't changed much in the last twenty-three years. It's a cozy four-bedroom—we use the extra room as a den—with a small dining area/living room/kitchen combo downstairs.
I take a seat on the leather piano bench. Asher lived in this house but, really, he lived right here, his fingers dancing on the ivory and black keys.
Being here, near all the memories of my baby brother (we're twins but he was eight minutes younger), is awful. It's not my parents' fault. They try to balance remembering him with moving on. But everywhere I look, I see someplace I failed him.
It's even worse than wanting Ethan and knowing I'll never have him, not the way I need to have him.
I want to take the gig, but my parents aren't going to like me leaving a few days into spring break.
There are keys jangling, then the doorknob turns. Mom steps inside, shifting the takeout bag to her other hand so she can shut the door. She's in her suit, fresh from work.
"Where were you last night, sweetie?" she asks.
I texted her that I was staying with a friend, but I was vague about the rest of the details. "I met up with an old friend. We got to talking and it was so late I figured I'd crash at their place."
"Anyone I know?" She sets the takeout bag on the table and moves into the kitchen. "I got chicken tandoori and vegetable curry. What do you say we split it, fifty-fifty."
"Okay." I help her set the table. "Dad working late?"
"It's that time of year."
She gets plates and silverware. I get drinks and napkins. The routine of it makes me
feel like I'm fifteen again. Lying about spending the night at a guy's place doesn't hurt the feeling like a teenager front.
"Sorry, sweetie. Did I miss you saying who you were with?" Mom's green eyes get curious. There's no accusation in her voice but the implication is clear. I know you neglected to mention who you were with. She brushes her auburn hair behind her ear and adjusts her tortoise-shell glasses. "Violet?"
Okay, she wants an answer.