Page 86 of The Spider & the Storm

“No,” I said, “I really don’t. I think I went to one once, but that was back when … God, I think I had to be ten, maybe eleven? I don't remember, but it was forever ago. Dad had taken me.”

Luke scoffed, disbelief crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The fuck do you read then?!”

“Not comic books!”

“Since when?!” He sounded shrill, the words squeaking out between bursts of his own laughter.

“When the hell have youeverknown me to read comic books?”

“Oh, come on. You used to read, uh … what was it?” He snapped his fingers, commanding the words to come to him. “The one with Pinhead. It was a movie. Uh …”

“Hellraiser?” I supplied as mirth continued to tug at the corners of my mouth.

My face began to hurt; I was smiling so much.

“That’s it! And, uh,Sandman, right? Oh! And, uh,The Crow! No, wait, that was a movie …”

My laughter settled as one side of my mouth curled up in a soft, almost-melancholy smile. I had never realized Luke paid so much attention to the things I’d been into over the years—apart from my drawing.

He always paid attention to that. Even when he had been drunk.

“No, that was a book before it was a movie,” I corrected quietly. “And they’re graphic novels, not comic books.”

He groaned and shoved my shoulder. “Oh, shut the hell up. Same fuckin' thing.”

I didn’t bother suppressing my eye roll. “Graphic novels are longer and more complex than comics.”

“Oh God, whatever,” he groused, followed by a chuckle. “And where do you buy those?”

I raised a brow. “The bookstore?”

He raised one back. “The …comicbookstore?”

I snorted. “Just the bookstore, you dick. Or the library.”

He harrumphed and turned his attention to the radio. Neither of us had been paying attention to it since I’d picked him up, but now, it seemed to matter. Or maybe he was just trying to think of something else to say. Something to keep the moment of normalcy from fading, to prevent the usual air of sadness and monotony from filling the space between us.

He settled on Kansas’s “Carry on My Wayward Son” before leaning back in his seat, staring out the window and tapping his grease-stained fingertips against his thigh.

Then, after the second verse and I turned the car onto our street, he asked, “So, uh … where do you pick up chicks then?”

Surprised, I glanced in his direction and stared at the back of his head for a moment before replying, “I don’t.”

When the hell did he think I had the time to pickanyoneup, besides him? My days consisted of waking up, driving usboth around, working, cooking dinner, and going back to bed, only to wake up and do it all over again. There wasn’t room for anything—or anyone—else, and it was for the better.

Nothing good ever came from me letting my guard down and allowing myself or others tolive.

“Hmm,” Luke replied with a short nod before dropping the topic altogether as we pulled into the driveway.

I cooked us a box of cheap pasta and sauce for dinner, and Luke carried his bowl back to his room, where he did God only knew what while I sat at the table and read that week’s book. Knowing damn well I wouldn’t see Luke again until the next morning, when it was time to drive him to work again. Wondering if we’d ever find that normalcy again and if it would ever stick around.

***

“Hey, so I need you to take me somewhere,” Luke said the next morning, interrupting my breakfast.

It was his day off, and the fact that he entered the dining room dressed, complete with his black leather jacket and boots, startled me from Stephen King'sBag of Bones.

“Where?” I asked suspiciously, holding a spoonful of oatmeal midair, still unable to believe my brother had woken up before noon on a day when he didn’t have to be awake at all.

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