Page 25 of Synced to Us

Brad takes his time breaking off our stare, as if he wants me to know he saw the whole exchange between Wyn and me.

And didn’t like the snapshot of Wyn’s happiness—even if faked—in the least.

9

Wyn

“Just sayin’, I deserve a thank-you for coming all the way down here and picking your ass up.”

Brad takes a hard right—probably on purpose—but I’ve braced for his usual douchebaggery and anticipate the turn.

I grip the handrail, my shoulder squishing against the car’s window. “What were you doing, watching Lucy put the kids to bed?”

“I have papers to grade, asshat.” He takes a hard break at a red. “But I don’t expect you to remember what it was like, having a real job.”

“I thought you said you lived ten minutes from here?” Dee pipes in from the backseat. Her voice carries an air-like quality of innocence, but the question is cunning.

Brad squares his shoulders, but keeps his gaze on the road. He mumbles, “It was ten minutes I could’ve taken to knock out another essay.”

I look out the passenger window and grin, appreciative of Dee’s efforts to casually call my brother out. I’ve taken it on the chin thousands of times but had yet to discover someone who could meet his passive-aggressive match, until her.

Her profile shines in the side mirror, the moonlight painting the sharp curve of her cheekbone as she stares out. Her dark eyes glimmer, as if the moon decided to pluck a few stars and place them in those inky depths.

I clench my hand on my lap, aching to write. I still have Sunset Love on my mind, and now I’m getting ideas for midnight lust.

Brad makes another turn and my attention tears from the mirror as we reach my childhood street.

It appears much the same, off-white clapboard houses with chipped trim. The front yards are short with people mostly using barking dogs as their fences.

Ma’s is at the end of the caul-de-sac and easily the best-looking house on Webber Street. She’s painted the two-story craftsman home a pale blue with white window trim, and a few years ago added a front porch.

Not sure why she’d want to sit in a rocking chair and look out at potholes, but she asserted that she saw memories every time she looked out on the street now that her boys were grown.

Maybe she was right. Brad and I rode our bikes on this road, played some vicious hockey, and were constantly scrapping with the neighbors. I saw more bruises on Webber Street than I did at school, and that’s saying something. At the time, I had no idea I’d become a successful keyboardist topping the charts. Worries over preserving my hands were unnecessary when I had a whole life ahead of me.

Man, being forever young was good times.

We pull into the drive, and I waste no time unfurling and stepping out.

I move to roll the open the passenger door, but Dee’s halfway out by the time I turn. When I hold out a hand to help her the rest of the way, she doesn’t take it and uses the handlebar instead. Once out, she slides my coat off and folds it over my extended arm.

Rather than leave my hand dangling like a limp dick, I toss the jacket over my shoulder and head to the flatbed.

“You got all that?” Brad motions to the luggage. “I gotta get inside, check on the kids.”

You mean crack a beer and flop on the La-Z-Boy while Lucy and Ma clean up dinner. “Sure, bud.”

He skips his scrawny ass up the stairs and onto the porch. The screen door screeches as he pulls it open. “Hey! You should probably get this oiled while you’re here.”

“On it,” I say, but I’m already half-buried in the flatbed and cursing him out.

Grunting, I lift one bag and set it on the driveway.

“This is cute,” Dee says behind me. Her hands are loose on her hips as she takes stock of our surroundings.

I’ve never seen a woman look so out of place on a driveway. The cracked, faded asphalt practically shudders at her every designer-shoe step, while her blouse, made of fancy material, floats around her form like tucked-in angel wings now that she’s shrugged off my coat. Somehow, she’s managed to smooth her long, ebony hair back into a satin curtain, although I never saw her grab a comb. The cream pants have a few creases in the leg from sitting in the car, but otherwise, they’ve stayed pristine.

The only thing messy about her is the coffee stain by yours truly, which she’s covered by pulling her hair to one side. If I didn’t know it was there…

---