Page 34 of Like You Want It
“But it seems really important to you that you get to live your life how you want. So I’ll try to be more… selective… in the future when deciding what to say to you if you do something I disagree with, okay?”
I sigh. Well, maybe not the perfect answer that I was hoping for, but at least we didn’t get into a fight. And I can’t expect people to change drastically overnight.
So I give him a smile, step in and wrap him in a hug. He hugs me back, giving me a good squeeze.
It’s unrealistic to expect that everything about our relationship will be perfect. I know he’ll still say shit that bothers me. He wouldn’t be my brother if he wasn’t a control freak. But I do also know that he loves me. So I believe him when he says he’s going to try. Which is all I really need from him. I can forgive the rest.
“And what’s this third job?”
I freeze.
Shit. Did I say that?
I step back, shrugging. “I’m just… working on a side hustle. Maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”
He watches me for a second. “Is it legal?”
I cross my arms. “Caleb!”
“I’m sorry!” he shouts out, his hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thought that, let alone asked it. I am excited to hear about whatever it is once you feel like sharing.”
I poke him in the stomach. “Thank you.”
“So, I talked to Christine,” he throws in, out of nowhere. “Dinner soon? You pick the night and we’ll make it work.”
I smile at him, though I doubt Christine ever agreed to a dinner. “That sounds great.”
And I mean it. Because even though things with Christine and I are the worst, I love my brother. And the best thing I can do is make an effort. He’s trying. So can I.
«««« »»»»
Multiple days go by between dinner at Susie’s on Sunday and when I finally realize that she’s avoiding me.
And this isn’t me just making assumptions because I haven’t seen her around.
Oh no.
This is both not seeing her around, and then also actively observing her creeping down the stairs Monday morning as she passes my apartment.
Then watching out of my front facing window as she slowly closes her car door, spends thirty seconds debating whether to click the lock that alarms her car, decides against it, and takes her shoes off before creeping back up the stairs to her place Tuesday night.
On Wednesday I hear her drop something in the stairwell, curse loudly, then watch as she sprints out to her car, looking back over her shoulder.
It’s like she’s doing the walk of shame without needing to feel any shame, but choosing to anyway.
Like most women do.
On Friday morning, when I hear a noise in the stairwell and look through the peephole, I spot her trying to slowly take her trash out for the weekly haul, and I decide that enough is enough.
I grab a bottle of wine andSt. Elmo’s Fireand make the quick hop up the stairs to Susie’s doorway. Then, I sit at the top and wait for her to get back.
I’m there for no more than thirty seconds when I see her come around the corner, eye my door and start to slink up the stairs. I clear my throat and I swear to god, shefliesout of her skin and jumps backwards, doing an awkward bump and tumble as she catches herself on the railing to keep from falling.
“Oh mygod!” she screeches, a hand placed against her chest as she pants in recovery. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to try and sneak by my apartment again.”
I see her freeze slightly at that, her face flushing red.
