Page 19 of The Older Brother
“You know, we’ve got a service through the company. I could have given them a call to get you a rental, had them pick up your car and diagnose?—”
“It’s not your company, Caleb,” I say. It’s annoying when my brother speaks as if he and my father are on the same level, like they’re partners. He’s barely out of high school. And he bailed on his AP math courses. I honestly think it will be a miracle if he passes the security exams.
My brother’s glare narrows on me, but his brow ticks up on one side after a moment.
“Unless this is a charity thing. It’s nice of you, Saylor. Keeping my brother in business. Family supports family and all that. I get it.” Caleb’s cocky expression shifts between the two of us as he sits on his hood.
“I was about to take her home. So if we could just hurry up with your little errand,” I say, pulling my license out and handing it to my brother.
He snatches it from my hand but keeps his challenging glare on me, his mouth frozen in that half smirk he wears when he feels superior.
“I can take you home, Say. I’m heading that way. And I’m sure my brother has a lot of work to do.” Caleb doesn’t look over his shoulder to meet her eyes. If he did, he’d see the creese deepening between her eyes as she scowls.
I spin my keys around my finger, partly to draw Saylor’s gaze back to me, but she’s locked in on the back of Caleb’s head.
My brother fishes his phone from his pocket, palming my license as he snaps a photo while his mouth lingers in that arrogant grin that never seems to leave his face. He hands my ID back, and I take it while splitting my focus on him and Saylor as she cradles her phone and rapidly types out a message. I secretly hope to feel my phone buzz in my pocket, but after a few seconds pass from the time she puts her phone away and begins to march toward the garage drive, I relent that whoever she was texting wasn’t me. It wasn’t Caleb either, though, and I’m a bit smug at that thought.
“You know it’s bullshit, right?” Caleb says, his voice low. He has yet to realize that Saylor’s walked away.
“You driving over here to do something I could have done myself with a text? Yeah, Caleb. I know it’s bullshit.” He came over here to gripe about me getting a share of the family fortune, I’m sure. He didn’t get to say everything that was on his chest to me during our lunch with dad, so he made up an excuse to see me and take up round two.
“You don’t have a right to any of it. You gave that up the second you torched our home.” His whisper-shout would have easily been heard if Saylor were still there, and as much as I like the idea of her seeing more of Caleb’s ugly underbelly, I don’t want her hearing more of the same old story about the disturbed Anderson boy who liked to play with matches. I’m sick of that tale myself, and I’m the one who fucking wrote it.
Caleb glances over his shoulder as he seethes, his spine straightening as soon as he realizes Saylor’s gone. Spinning on his feet, he turns toward the roadway where his ex is holding out a hand and waving to someone not quite in view yet.
“Saylor! What the hell?” Caleb holds up both hands, incensed that she would not need him perhaps, or maybe irked that shewould dare leave without a word. She left me, too, but unlike my brother, I’m willing to respect her choice and own that I probably didn’t deserve her goodbye this time.
Cami’s car pulls into view within seconds, and Saylor holds up a middle finger before getting into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut.
“I was taking you home now! Why you gotta be that way?” I chuckle silently as my brother shouts at Cami’s taillights. And when he turns back to finish his lecture to me, I decide to take a page out of Saylor’s book, turning my back to him and flipping him the bird on my way to the back room where I live and can lock the door.
The click feels good, as does the way my brother futilely calls me a dick from the other side of the door before leaving. But then I’m all alone again, with nothing but a fleeting mental snapshot of Saylor’s smile and her broken air conditioning.
Chapter 6
The last placeI want to go is to my mom’s office. Caleb will be there, and after his little performance yesterday, I can’t guarantee I won’t wrap my hands around his neck upon first sight. I have no problem acting on that urge, but I don’t need to cause a scene at my mom’s work or make issues for her with Caleb’s dad.
As irritating as my mother’s constant critiques of my life are, I can’t ignore how hard she has worked to give me opportunities. She managed to transform a two-year associate’s degree in office management into a steady career with a solid retirement outlook. We might not be up in the hills, living behind the gate, but we have a nice home, and I got to attend the same private school that the Anderson boys did. And I owe that to her.
I’d forgotten that I promised to meet her for lunch today to set up new beneficiary paperwork. I’m not sure if that would have stopped me from marching out of Rowan’s garage to leave him to bicker with his brother, but it would have made me rethink leaving my car behind. Now, I’m without wheels for the day, and Cami is not even remotely reliable before ten in the morning. I could put this off for a day, I guess, but then I’d haveto explain to my mom that my car is at Rowan’s garage, which would lead to me enduring a new round of lectures about staying away from the older Anderson brother. I’m not interested in hearing any opinions on that, which is probably why I haven’t mentioned anything to Cami about him . . .us.
The thought ofusmakes me snort laugh. I shake off my fantasy and search my Uber options. The rides showing are all around a hundred bucks to head downtown at this time of day. I could charge it to my mom, but she’d get an alert, which would, again, lead to questions.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, stuffing my phone in the back pocket of my shorts before snagging my crossbody and phone from my dresser and shoving my feet into my sneakers without socks. I don’t have time to dress for a formal office visit, which I’m sure I’ll hear about from my mom, but if I’m going to catch the bus and get there on time, I have to head out now and be in shoes that can accommodate a brief sprint from the blue line to the express stop by the freeway.
I snag a water bottle from the fridge and lock the door behind me. I twist my hair up in a clip, letting the sun hit the back of my neck while I rush to the corner of our street. There’s a woman waiting with a walker under the bus shelter, and she looks to be struggling with several grocery bags. Two men are waiting on the other side of her, both looking to be in their early thirties, perhaps, though it’s hard to tell given the weathered scruff on their faces. Both of their shoes are in rough shape, one pair peppered with holes, but thankfully, the man has a new pair of socks underneath to shield his skin. The skin on their noses is peeling to the point of forming wounds, and their shoulders and arms are a deep, painful red, which leads me to believe they’re either homeless or outdoor labor workers. Maybe both.
As the bus approaches, I move closer to the woman and eventually scoop up two of her plastic grocery bags to help herget on the bus. Her long hair is twisted in a bun at the base of her neck, but several strands have fallen out, leaving the long hairs to stick to her sweat-soaked neck and back.
“It’s pretty hot out here to be making a grocery run,” I say.
She laughs softly, her eyes squinting against the sun as she looks up at me with a smile.
“It’s always hot out here for months at a time. A woman’s gotta eat, though, so it’s not like I can put it off.” She coughs through her laugh, covering her mouth with a tissue wadded in her palm. She shoves it in a loose pocket on the hip of her long sun dress before adjusting the bags looped over her right arm.
The bus squeals to a stop in front of us, and I hold my arm out to help the woman balance into the entrance while one of the men waiting with us lifts up her walker.
“Thanks, Chad. I’ll get it,” the driver says to the man, taking the device in two hands and unhooking a clasp that allows it to fold up easily. He slides the walker into a nook behind the driver’s seat while I help the woman get settled in a seat near the front. She pulls out a cell phone to scan the payment code, and I do the same, taking a seat directly across from her. The men move to the middle, the one who didn’t assist curling up on his side along two seats, while the other man, Chad, apparently, pulls a set of earbuds from his pocket and unwinds the cord before plugging them into his phone.
