Page 4 of The Roommate Lie

Marcus:Did you get there safe? How’s our favorite grump? Has he swept you off your feet while scowling yet?

I can’t help smiling. Even trapped in a car, at the mercy of a stranger, my little brother has that effect on me. He’s the youngest Kilpatrick, the only boy I know who could’ve survived the chaos of his three older sisters, and he’s also the only sibling I have who isn’t back at my place in Texas, crashing at my condo. He’s in Virginia where he belongs. And he isn’t mad at me.

Miracle of miracles.

I picture him in his dorm at Virginia Tech, and my smile widens the tiniest bit. I consider keeping things light, glossing over the trickier parts of my day, but this is Marcus I’m dealing with. Usually, I can tell him anything. So I stick to the truth…sort of.

Alice:Jason couldn’t make it to the bus station. But I’m on my way to see him now. (And his sweet, sweet scowl.)

Marcus:He didn’t meet you? Did you have to get a rideshare?

Even over text, I can sense the tension in his response. Our dad isn’t convinced any mode of public transportation is safe enough for his daughters—especially rideshares—and I bite my lip, not sure how much I want to reveal.

Except I’m in a car with a stranger. Nothing around me is familiar, and this guy could be driving me anywhere. If this ismy chance to let someone know where I am, I should probably take it.

Alice:They don’t have rideshares out here, but someone from the bus station offered to drive me.

The truth sounds even worse via text. Which is really saying something. My brother responds in record time.

Marcus:Someone from the bus station?

Alice:An employee.

Twice in a row, I’ve avoided saying it’s a guy, that I’m currently riding around with some man I just met, but that doesn’t mean Marcus hasn’t noticed. It takes my brother less than a second before he does what he’s been trained to do. Before he channels the living ghost of our father, the recently retired Major General Jeffrey H. Kilpatrick.

Marcus:What’s his name?

Marcus:Height, weight, license plate number? Any distinguishing features? Did you pack your mace?

There are two types of Kilpatrick daughters: mace girls and taser girls. My younger sisters are taser girls through and through. It wouldn’t even take much to provoke them. They were born ready to bring people to their knees.

But I’m a mace girl. Spray and run, that’s my motto.

I can feel it too, flight mode. I consider throwing myself out of the car again, but my bones veto that option. Apparently, they’re not in the mood to get shattered today.

Instead, I take a few deep breaths before responding to my brother. Hoping to channel a sense of calm I don’t feel.

Alice:His name is Charlie. And he seems nice.

They always do.I can almost hear my father saying that, and Marcus is probably thinking the same thing, that seeming nice means nothing. Though he’s kind enough to let my shameless optimism slide—if it actually counts as optimism.

I’m not even sure if I believe it, that Charlie is a nice guy. He’s either a tabby cat or a tiger; I honestly can’t tell which.

Marcus:Does he have a last name?

Marcus:Please tell me you know his last name.

I do not. And my silence speaks volumes.

It takes another two seconds for Marcus to lose it. For my phone to start buzzing with texts like a robot that got struck by lightning. Although there’s one thing my highly trained baby brother doesn’t do: call me.

Our father used to fly F-117 Nighthawks in the Air Force, and stealth life is the best life. It’s practically our family motto.

So Marcus keeps our conversation quiet. Text only. That way, the man beside me with the dangerous smile never has to know how much we’re both freaking out.

Too bad I’m the family open book. My face is the ultimate snitch.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charlie asks. “You look a little green. Are you car sick?”

---