by C. K. Brooke
I exhale. “Mason, I’m sorry I put you through—”
He laughs. “Don’t apologize. The steak was good. I just feel like a jerk that Brad wouldn’t let me pay.”
“Yeah, he’s nice like that.”
When the song ends, we ride in silence. Mason’s driving with only one hand on the steering wheel. His right hand, closest to me, rests on the center console. Normally, I hate when people don’t keep both hands on the steering wheel. But for some reason, it isn’t scaring me right now.
I watch his resting hand, beginning to wonder if he’s expecting something. When he catches me looking, I turn my head. Dark scenery, silhouettes of trees and blank, empty fields pan past my window, and my senses return to me.
Of course he’s not trying to hold my hand. Why would he?
Starting to feel hot, I reach forward and dial back the heat. “So, what do you do outside of hypnotherapy?”
“I’m your driving instructor, remember?”
Cute. “I mean, what are your other interests, hobbies?”
“I play guitar.” He shrugs. “And…” He turns on the blinker as he merges onto the highway. “That’s about it.”
“What do you play?” I’m suddenly interested, but at the same time, it’s depressing me just a little. Of course, the attractive, longish-haired guy is artistic and musical and plays guitar. And I’m sure that just makes him more desirable to girls…girls who actually have a chance with him.
A sinking sensation hits me when I realize he might even have someone already. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never asked.
“I started out with the usual beginner stuff,” he answers my question. “ACDC, Pink Floyd, ‘Hotel California’ and all that. I still do some classic rock, but lately I just play my own stuff.”
“You’re a songwriter?”
“Let’s not get carried away, here.” He smiles.
“I want to hear your songs. Do you have them on here?” I tap his MP3 player.
“Nah, I haven’t recorded them.”
“But you will?”
He side-glances at me, then changes lanes. “I mean…I haven’t really thought about—crap. I missed the exit.”
“Oh.” I glance over my shoulder at the shrinking lanes behind us. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I got distracted.” He lifts his hand off the center console and replaces it on the wheel, then merges to take the next exit. But the question hangs over me, begging to be asked: What’s distracting you?
I don’t ask it. Just in case the answer isn’t what I was hoping to hear.
It’s warming up in here again, even though the heat is on the lowest setting. I move the dial back, turning it off.
When we pull into my driveway, I rue how quickly the night has ended. I open my door to let in some cool air before stepping out. To my surprise, Mason turns the car off. He gets out, then comes around to escort me out.
The smell of burning firewood rides on the evening as he walks me down the garden path and up the steps to my porch.
All is dark, save for a dim light in the front window. He and I stop at the door, facing each other. By now, my boots should be killing me, but I’m barely registering the pain in my heels as I watch him, the twitch of a grin beneath his goatee, his blue eyes glinting with intrigue as they connect with mine.
I bring my heels together like a shy schoolgirl, and I’m sure I’m wearing a dumb smile. “So.”
He steps a little closer. “So.”
A deafening squeal cuts in like a fork against a china dish as the front door squalls open. The floodlights switch on, blaring over us like a searchlight, revealing my stepbrother in the doorway.
Mason takes a wide step back.
“Oh,” Henry says flatly. “I heard voices. Thought I’d check.”
I clear my throat, my eyes widening imploringly at him.
“How’s Heather?” Henry speaks only to me, ignoring Mason.
“The same,” I answer impatiently.
He just stands there, until I finally glare at him. “Well? Are you going to leave?”
By response, he swings the door shut, damn near slamming it, though not before casting Mason an irate glance. I could swallow an iceberg and still not douse the volcano erupting inside me.
“Well, I’ve got an early client in the morning, so I should, uh…” Mason jabs his thumb in the direction of his car.
“Oh.” I bend my knees a little. “Okay. I mean, if you need to head out, that’s cool. But you’re welcome to come in, you know, and hang out. My mom doesn’t mind.”
“I think your brother does.”
I shake my head. “Ignore him.”
“I was teasing.” His expression softens. “I really wish I could, Willow, but I have to get home. We’ll get together again soon. Thanks for letting me come out with you tonight.”
“Thanks for driving me. I had a great time.” Save for my crazy-ass family scaring you away.
“Me too. See you.” He lifts a hand—that’s it—and hops down the porch steps. With a sinking sensation, I look on as he returns to his sedan. He opens the driver’s side door, but before getting in, calls up, “Remember to keep listening to our recording.”
“Twenty-one days,” I affirm.
He forms a pistol with his thumb and forefinger, as if to say, you got it.
No sooner has he backed out of the driveway than I barge into the house, growling, “I’m going to murder you, Henry Hayes!” I bend over, thrusting down the zippers on the sides of my boots, and step out of the godforsaken things.
“I told you I was free tonight.” His shadow covers me in the low-lit living room. “I could’ve driven you. You didn’t have to ask that Max guy.”
“His name’s Mason.” I unbutton my overcoat and throw it onto a hanger in the closet, too pissed to care if it hangs lopsided.
“Whatever.” Henry follows me as I stalk down the hallway to my bedroom. “Are you seeing him now?”
“No, I am not seeing him.” We reach my door and I spin to face him. “Thanks to you!”
Anything could’ve happened out there on the porch tonight. I can think of a million things now that I would’ve wanted to ask Mason. Namely, do you have a girlfriend? When you said you’d go as my date, were you serious?
Did we just have a date?
And a goodnight kiss. That so could’ve been the end to my evening. And I think Mason may have even been trying to hold my hand in his car, although I’m still not sure…
But Henry ruined any chance of finding out. He’d spoiled everything—on purpose.
His frame nearly blocks me in against my door. “So if you’re not seeing him, then why did he go with you?”
“For moral support,” I sputter the first answer that comes to mind.
“I could give you that.”
“You weren’t invited.” I twist my doorknob.
“Was he?” Henry folds his arms, and I falter. “Look, just tell me what he’s got that I don’t. He’s a hypnotherapist, for crying out loud. A phony therapist. A quack.” He points to his chest. “I’m studying to be a medical doctor. I’ll make way more money than he ever will.”
“You think this has anything to do with money?” I exclaim.
“What’s it got to do with, then?”
“Henry.” I grip my forehead, feeling a tension headache coming on. “You. Are. My. Brother.”
“Stepbrother.” He remains in the doorway behind me as I pass into my room. “And it’s not like we grew up together, so don’t play the whole, ‘it’s weird, we’re related’ deck of cards on me—”
“But it is weird.” I pick up a throw pillow off my bed and chuck it at him. “And we are related.”
He dodges the pillow, letting it tumble to the floor. “Is that all it is, then? If our parents weren’t married, you’d consider me?”
I pause, facing the Abbey Road poster on my wall. Truth is, I’d never thought of it that way. I’d always jumped to the stepsibling thing as an excuse t
o never go out with him. Well, that, and the fact I’m a homebody.
But, now that he mentions it, I can’t help but wonder… Would I feel any differently if Henry and I lived with different families, in different homes? If we’d met in some other way, some other place or time…?
As if in the seat of my subconscious, a small voice intones: Not again.
“I can’t give you another chance,” I blurt. As soon as the words are out, I’m as confused as he sounds.
“Another chance?” he repeats. “But you haven’t given me one.”
I stare at the white-striped crosswalk beneath the legendary musicians’ heels. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I honestly don’t know where that came from.”
But when I turn to face Henry, he’s gone.
8
“While I’m out today, will you bring the Samhain decorations up from the garage?”
I finish typing, then spin around in my computer chair. “Say what?”
Mom stands in my doorway in her work clothes, looking conformed as ever in a collared jacket and pencil skirt. Only her wild curls and au naturale, unmade-up face indicate there might be free spirit behind the professional facade. Other than that, she could pass for perfectly mainstream.
She repeats her question.
“Oh,” I say. “Sure. Remind me which boxes you want?”
“The green plastic totes. They’re labeled—I think there’re about three. I forget what’s in there, but if any of them are too heavy, ask Henry to help you.”
“Okay. Have a good morning, Mom.”
“You too.”
She departs, leaving behind a whiff of her chemical-free shampoo, and I return to my computer, data sheets and spreadsheets and website tabs with speed tests and backlink reports.
The hours tick past. By late afternoon, I stand up to stretch. My upper back makes a cracking sound, and I exhale. Setting my remaining assignments aside, I leave the room and head downstairs.
The entrance to the garage is on the bottom level of our home. I pass Henry’s closed door, heading to the end of the hall, and open the door to the dark and slightly musty-smelling garage.
“Green totes,” I whisper, looking around. I try the switch on the wall but nothing happens, and then I remember the bulb burned out a while ago and no one’s gotten around to replacing it. I should’ve brought a flashlight.
I part a long-abandoned cobweb to squeeze past the rows of Greg’s furniture, for which we haven’t yet found a place in the house, and boxes he and Henry haven’t unpacked since they moved in last year.
After five minutes of searching, and most likely turning the soles of my white socks black, I spot the stack of green-tinted plastic storage totes. I have to move a box of Greg’s old records out of the way before I can get to them. They tower over me, definitely more than three. More like ten.
Jeez, Mom. How many Halloween decorations do you need?
I lift the lid of the top one to peek inside. It’s hard to see because the garage is so dark, but I see some huge binders carrying Samhain spell print-offs, pouches of oil tinctures and pinecones, and a big Styrofoam spider, and I know I’ve got the right containers. I refasten the lid, gather the first tote in my arms, and set it down in the hallway inside.
I return for the next in line, but this one’s too heavy. I try to buckle down, putting my legs into it, but don’t want to hurt myself trying. I snap off the lid and look inside. “Oh, brother,” I groan. Mom’s cauldron collection. She likes to show it off in the front window at Samhain, the way other people might display winter scenescape miniatures at Christmastime.
“Hey, Henry?” My voice echoes on the bare walls around me.
No answer. He probably didn’t hear, since I’m out in the garage. I step back inside the house, taking care to peel my socks off before walking on the carpet (sure enough, the bottoms are gray with dust), and head down the hall to his room.
I stop at his door and give it a gentle rap of my knuckles. Still no answer, which is unlike him. Usually, he jumps at the chance to help me with whatever I need.
Cautiously, I open his door. He’s lying on his bed atop the comforter, half-buried in a pile of textbooks. The screen of his laptop, which faces him on his nightstand, has gone black. He’s sound asleep.
I take a step closer. The bags beneath his resting eyes tell me he never went to bed last night. It strikes a chord of pity in me.
Gingerly as I can, trying my best not to disturb him, I lift the textbooks and lay them on his desk. I plug in his laptop and silently close it. His desk lamp, still burning, is making a buzzing sound, so I switch it off.
I’m about to leave when I notice his highlighter on the floor by his dangling hand. I crouch down to retrieve and cap it. A strange voice crackles through the stillness, almost inaudible.
“Sorry.”
I look up, but Henry’s eyes are shut. My heart rate increases. “Henry?”
He had to have been the one who’d spoken. The room was empty, save for us, and it was definitely a male voice. But it sounded nothing like Henry. The voice was raspy and low, and spoken with a slow drawl that I’ve never heard come out of his mouth.
I’m about to write it off as my imagination when I see his fingers twitch. “Please…forgive,” he whispers.
“For what?” I breathe, still crouching at his bedside with the highlighter in my hand.
His steady breathing thickens. “H-he cut the brakes,” he says in that same, strange voice. “I didn’t know.”
My legs feel wobbly as I return to my feet, backing away. Panic spreads inside me like ink in water, and all I know is that I suddenly need to get the hell out of here. Yet, I have to know. “Who cut whose brakes?”
When he begins to snore, saying no more, I put my hands on his shoulders and shake him. My breaths are trembling. “Henry,” I demand. “Wake up!”
He startles with a gasp. He lifts his head, looking around his bedroom as if there might be a fire, until his eyes land on me. His forehead creases. “Willow?” he asks groggily. “Was I asleep?”
“What were you just saying?” I hug my myself.
Confusion settles into the space between his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘he cut the brakes.’ Who cut whose brakes?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The scary part is, I believe him. His tired face is so bewildered, and his voice is back to normal…it was as if another person had been speaking through him.
“Are you okay?” He sits up, massaging the side of his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I might have.
I back away, toward the door. “I’m just…really weirded out right now. You were talking in your sleep, and…” I trail off.
“Just dreaming, I guess.” He yawns. “Do you need something?”
“Um, my mom wanted me to bring up the Samhain decorations, but the boxes were kinda heavy, so…”
“Sure. I’ll get them.”
“Thanks. They’re in the garage. Um, the green ones.”
He nods, apparently still waking up, and I head upstairs as quickly as I can. My heart is hammering as I return to my desk and pick up my phone. I open a group text to Mom and Greg.
Don’t go anywhere until you test your brakes.
I hit send, then search for Mason in my contacts. I deliberate for a moment over the message option, then hit call instead.
He picks up on the second ring. “Yo, Willow.”
“Do your brakes work?” I blurt.
“Uh…hang on.” There’s a two-second pause. “Yeah. S’up?”
“Are you driving right now?”
“I am, in fact, at the drive-through. It’s Taco Bell Tuesday, after all.”
I’m so relieved to hear his normal, playful voice, I almost laugh. “Yum. I’m stuck with peanut butter and jelly for dinner.”
“No way. A stellar chef like you?”
My mouth curves in spite of myself. “I’ve
been busy with work today and didn’t have time to prepare anything special.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Mason teases. “Hold on a sec.” I hear him transacting with the clerk. After a minute, he returns to our call. “What’s happening? Why did you call me demanding to know if my brakes work?”
I don’t want to get into the details, so I half-lie. “I just had a weird feeling all of a sudden.”
“Hmm.” He must be chewing now, as his mouth sounds full.
My phone buzzes against my ear. I pull it back to see an incoming text from Mom:
Brakes R fine... Everything OK?
My chest feels looser, lighter. I breathe easily again. Everyone I care about is safe.
I hear the sound of fast food wrappers rustling in the receiver. “So…any chance you might want to hang out tomorrow evening?” he asks.
My smile expands. “Oh, there’s a pretty good chance.”
#
Greg is asleep in the reclining chair, an open bag of pretzels in his lap. Henry leans across me to grab the remote control from the arm of his dad’s chair, and flips through the channels.
I look back down at my dream journal, trying to ignore the senseless drone of the TV. I’m paging through the notebook, reading for the first time what I’ve written in states of semi-consciousness. Some of it, I don’t even remember writing.
Most of it is typical, nonsensical dream sequence stuff…weirdly-shaped houses with basements that never end, running from something I can’t see, and a few mundane snippets. But one passage in particular gives me pause. I reach up and flick on the lamp beside me, then reread under the improved lighting:
Teenage girl…my face is different? Freckles. Looking into mirror, putting on lipstick. Two-story house. On my way out, going somewhere. Exciting. In high school? Popular…friends. Applying makeup, bedroom mirror. No idea what’s about to happen.
I stare at the entry. It’s in my usual sloppy handwriting, but I have no recollection of writing it. Yet, as I study it again, the visual comes back to me…a girl, athletically-built, maybe fifteen or sixteen, rolling lipstick over her lips and sweeping blush across a pair of freckled cheeks. I vaguely remember the wooden furniture in the room, the chest of drawers and mirror into which I was looking, seeing this girl reflected back at me…
