Page 49 of Peppermint Bark

He arched his brow mischievously. “Hundreds.”

“We’ve got time for one, maybe two. Better make them count.”

He tilted his head back and forth, weighing his options. His gaze landed on Yolanda, who shimmied her grass skirt at him. He muttered about the truck’s Patronus, then said, “When Mallory said you’re the only one who drives your truck, you blamed the transmission.”

I tensed in anticipation but decided to play it lightly, correcting him like a Jeopardy contestant: “Please phrase it in the form of a question.”

He smirked, shifting gears. “Why don’t you let anybody drive your truck?”

I opened the glove box and rooted past a bunch of stuff Mallory had stashed: pale pink lipstick, vegan Takis Fuego, a pleasure pack of condoms, and for some inexplicable reason, a kaleidoscope. Conveniently, looking for those papers meant I could avoid his eyes as I said, “After my dad kicked me out, I petitioned the judge for a sealed name change.”

“Sealed name change, smart,” he said casually, knowing that most court-approved name changes have to be listed in public records unless there’s a threat to the person’s privacy.

“The paperwork was a nightmare. I got almost everything changed over.”

At a red light, I handed two papers to Alexander: my name change court order and the truck’s registration with two names listed: Elijah Heywood listed above my dead name.

Alex nodded in understanding: If another driver got pulled over and the cops ran the plates, they might need to contact my brother. As far as I knew, the truck had never been reported as stolen, but …

“So you don’t let anybody else drive it,” he said with a cocky grin, “except me.”

“Except you,” I repeated, tucking the paperwork away. “Plus if you got pulled over, the cop would let you off.”

His crooked grin grew. “What makes you assume that?”

Cishet white men really didn’t get it, did they?

“You’re you, Alex. You’d give that cop hell. By the time you were done chewing him out, he’d be paying you a fine for the inconvenience.”

His head tilted back into a big, throaty roar of laughter as he pulled into a parking spot behind the yoga studio. When his legs tilted to me, his expression was soft. “The sealed name change was smart, to make yourself untraceable to your dad. But what if people want to find you and can't?”

In the two days between when Dad kicked me out and when he disconnected my phone from the family plan, nobody called me. Not my mom, or grandma, or any of my brothers. Dad declared that I was no longer a member of their family, and they all followed suit.

“Grace, you always talk so fondly about Elijah. What if he’s looking for you?”

I shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t realize I talked about Elijah that much.

I didn’t realize Alex had been paying attention.

It's not like I hadn't considered it. For the first year, it had been hard to stop considering it. Maybe Elijah would have been supportive … but maybe not.

When I said goodbye to him at the airport, I thought it would only be for our junior year. Eight months apart felt like it would be torture. Now eight years had passed. I had no idea when he tapped the roof of our truck and told me to keep it in good shape for him that we might never see each other again.

“I could call him,” Alex offered. My breath hitched as my hand reached to wrap around the door handle. He quickly added, “Not today. But I could use the firm's resources to get his number, then fake a problem with the truck to find out how he reacts.”

The offer landed like a blow to the stomach, knocking the wind out of me.

Alex could call Elijah. He would stay professional and detached, not share personal details, but he’d know what to listen for in his response. If my brother was supportive, Alex would tell me.

“He wouldn’t be hard to track down,” he murmured, probably already planning what he’d say on the call.

But what if Elijah hated me? Would it hurt more to know?

“Thank you, but no. Plenty of people don’t talk to their siblings. I’ve gotten used to it.” He gave me a look like he didn’t believe me. “Like Mallory. Before this month, when was the last time you two talked?”

“That’s not the same.”

“Or Nick. When was the last time you called him?”

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