Page 19 of Broken Rivalry

His eyes linger on me, a silent question hanging between us. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken words, but I turn away, shielding my vulnerability behind a mask of indifference.

“Let me help you,” he offers, stepping out. His silhouette, tall and somewhat reassuring against the dimming sky, seems to linger on the edge of my world and his. But his eyes are asking more questions than I’m ready to answer.

I hesitate for a second, staring at his flashy, luxurious SUV and how it’s a sore thumb in a place like this.

His car, all shiny and expensive, looks so out of place here. It’s like a slap in the face, reminding me of everything we don’t have. I feel a weird mix of embarrassment and anger bubbling inside me.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell him, though my wavering voice inadvertently shows my concern. “Your car will be broken into in the next hour,” I add, trying to make my voice steady to hide the fact that, despite everything, I care about what happens to him.

He shrugs. “I don’t care.” But there’s something in his eyes, a stubborn set to his jaw, that tells me it’s not the car he’s worried about. It’s like he’s planting his feet in my world, refusing to be pushed out again, even if it’s only temporarily. It’s the same look that he used to have in high school when he was determined to cause mayhem, mostly in my life.

His nonchalance grates on me, a stark reminder of the divide between our worlds: his world, where a car is just a car, and mine, where it represents a lifeline, a means to survive.

I hand him the pizza box with the cake on top and sigh, leading the way through the trailer park.

My trailer, with its peeling blue paint and a single flickering porch light, comes into view, and my steps falter. “You have to leave before Mom gets back. She hates your family even more than I do.”

His brows dip in obvious discontent, but he nods.

I force a smile as I reach the porch, and Mrs. O’Leary, our neighbor, is outside, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Leary! I wanted to be here earlier, but with work and all.”

She waves her hands, holding her cigarette, the ash falling in my mother’s planted mini roses. The only thing she has as a hobby.

“It’s alright, shorty, the show ain’t startin’ for another fifteen minutes.” She coughs and wheezes, making me wince. A stern reminder to never touch a cigarette.

She stands up. “Is that him?” she asks, her eyes looking over Ethan with curiosity and approval. But beneath her casual inquiry, there’s a probing, a seeking for gossip or scandal, something to break the monotony of trailer park life.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, keeping my expression neutral. Mrs. O’Leary is convinced I left the park and went to university because of a boy. As if I wouldn’t leave for any other reason. So I let her believe it; it is easier that way. “No, it’s not.” There was no boy, but she didn’t believe it when I moved out.

She takes a drag of her cigarette. “Too bad, he is charming.”

“Is Lacie here? You can introduce them,” I reply, gesturing to Ethan, who glares at me.

“No, I’m good,” he mutters.

I shrug. “Your loss. Lacie is great.”

“At spreading her legs!” Mrs. O’Leary barks with disapproval. “Talking about trouble, Lacie saw your James with the junkyard boys.”

My heart sinks. The junkyard boys—bad seeds in the making, vandalizing, stealing. A promise of a future behind bars. “Tell her thank you. I’ll have a word with Viper about it.”

“Viper.” Ethan scoffs. “Who’s stupid enough to be called that?”

“Someone you don’t want to meet in a dark alley. We’re lucky he’s fond of our little Poppy.”

I shoot Ethan a warning glance, silently telling him to keep his mouth shut. He gives me a knowing look but remains silent. Also, Viper is not fond of me; he’s fond of the idea of putting me in his bed, which will never happen.

I thank Mrs. O’Leary and step inside the trailer, Ethan following closely behind. The scent of something sweet and burned wafts through the air. My brothers, James and Billy, are sprawled on the worn-out couch, which used to be my bedroom, their eyes glued to the small, static-filled TV screen.

James, the elder one, turns his head, and his eyes narrow at Ethan. “Who’s this?” His voice is laced with suspicion and a protective edge that makes me wince. He’s too young to be this guarded, but also, at age fourteen, his stupid hormones are acting up.

“I’m—”

“He’s a friend from school. His name is Jeremy,” I lie smoothly. “Gave me a ride is all.”

Ethan mutters something under his breath, but I don’t care as Billy turns toward me, and my heart squeezes with sorrow at the only life my little brother is really experiencing.

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