Page 139 of Promise Me Nothing
Lucas is reading on the couch. Which is weird enough, since I never see him read.
“That’s what I don’t understand. You did what you needed to do. You got me here. Pretended to be my friend and had all your friends do the same.”
His face contorts into a grimace.
“Why not just let it go, now? You got what you wanted. There’s no need to keep up the charade that you care about meat all.”
There’s a pause.
Maybe he’s absorbing my words because it’s the most I’ve said to him at one time in over a week. Maybe he’s figuring out what to say. Maybe he doesn’t really know.
When he just continues to look at me, a pained look on his face, I shake my head. “Forget I asked,” I say, my words laced with bitterness.
No longer hungry, I close my to-go container, pop it in the fridge, and head upstairs to my room. I close and lock my bedroom door and grab a blanket, then head out to the balcony, and up the stairs to the rooftop.
I’ve been coming up here a lot in my free time, but not to float in the Jacuzzi, or to sit on the loungers. Both of those things are tainted.
Instead, I crawl up on to the actual roof, tiptoe to the edge, and then sit down with my blanket wrapped around me.
This spot is my favorite because I can see the ocean, the entire beach stretched out in front of me, all of the bikers and skaters and dog walkers on The Strand. If I look to the left I can see all the way down to the Hermosa pier, and to the right, the Manhattan pier, way off in the distance.
I like this spot because I can sit up here and watch everyone live their lives. These rich, full, exciting lives with friends and family and trips to the ocean. Laughter and drinking and playing in the sand. I like this spot because it feels like the only true place I belong in this city.
On the outside, looking in. Observing as everyone else builds and grows and learns and loves and becomes loved by others.
It’s a beautiful and tragic place to feel the most comfortable.
When I hear footsteps behind me, I know it’s Lucas. Who else would be able to unlock my bedroom door and come up here?
“I locked my door for a reason,” I say without looking in his direction, my eyes following a group of friends bringing in their chairs and towels as the sun sets in the distance.
“Well, what would a bedroom lock be without a brother to break it open?”
I can’t help the tiny smile that appears, but I’m careful to hide it from him.
“Also, you may have lockedyourbedroom, but you didn’t lock the other one. And that onealsoleads out to the balcony.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug and takes a seat next to me, his long legs stretching out in front of him, then bending slightly as he rests his arms on his knees.
I’ve seen photos of his mom. She’s really short, which means he got those legs from our dad.
Maybe Ivy will grow into a pair of long legs, too.
I still haven’t processed that part. That I not only have a half-brother, but also a half-sister. An adorable little girl who has done nothing wrong, and yet I can’t help but resent just a little bit.
Just a smidge.
But if I’m honest, my care for her outweighs the upset, ten to one.
“I found out about you the day before my fifteenth birthday,” he says. “I’d been searching for my dad, trying to find out where he was, why he disappeared years before. So I hired a P.I., and I found out what happened.”
My heart pinches, remembering what it was like when I lost them both. My father with his loud laugh and my mother with her quiet smiles and mess of curly hair.
“The P.I. also said there was information about you in that file. A sister. And at first, I was shocked. Until I remembered the one time I met you when we were kids.”
My eyes fly to his, an argument on my lips. There’s no way we met when we were kids.
But then I see what Lucas has in his hands.
“I looked through this once right after you first moved in. You left it on the dining room table for some reason, and I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see Joshua, wanted to see Henry. So I looked through it all.”
