Page 5 of Watching You
I step back, reclaiming my space just as Kinsley breezes in and shoves him aside.
“Get out of the way, Kane!” she says, practically bouncing towards the coffee maker.
I take a breath, relishing the shift, the disruption of the tension that was just coiled around me. As Kins pours herself a cup, I gulp my coffee, too hot, burning my tongue, but the pain is grounding.
When I glance up, Kane’s watching me. Not hiding it. Not softening it. Just…watching.
“Are you guys all ready to go?” Mrs. Fischer asks as she and Mr. Fischer step into the kitchen.
“We are, Mom,” Kins replies cheerfully, her eyes sparkling.
“Kane, honey, I didn’t expect you here. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” Mrs. Fischer rounds the counter, pulling her giant son in for a hug.
“I got here late and I didn’t want to disturb anyone,” he shrugs, his voice sounding much lighter than moments before.
“Shouldn’t you be at practice, son?” Mr. Fischer’s tone is firm, almost sharp. I notice the way Kane’s shoulders tense, the subtle coil of muscle under his shirt.
“We had a scrimmage yesterday. No practice today,” he answers with a finality that seems to drop the subject, but his dad persists.
“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t be using this time in the gym. That first draft pick isn’t a guarantee if you start slacking off now.” The words land heavily, like weights dropped into the room. My fingerstighten around my coffee mug, and I trace the rim twice—clockwise—before taking a sip. The ritual calms me, even as I watch Kane’s jaw flex.
“Calm down, sweetie. I’m glad I got to see my boy, if only for a few minutes. You should come home more often, Kane. We miss you.” I watch as Kane forces a smile down at his mother, but it is clearly strained. There has to be deeper issues beneath the surface, an undertow of unsettling emotions that makes his laughter feel hollow.
“Okay, glad everyone is caught up. We need to go,” Kinsley announces, but her eyes dart to me with wide, pleading eyes. It’s almost funny how attuned we are to each other’s feelings. She feels the tension in the air like the steam from my coffee.
“Of course, we don’t want you to be late for orientation. Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to come?” Mrs. Fischer asks sweetly, but Mr. Fischer interjects.
“They’ll be fine, Kathryn. Besides, Kane will help with anything they need. Right, son?” Mr. Fischer’s hand lands on Kane’s back with a thud that makes me flinch.
“Sure, I’ll be there for everything,” he assures, only he is looking directly at me. My stomach twists. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat won’t go down. I cough, once, twice, because stopping on an odd number makes my skin crawl.
“You good, B?” Kins looks back at me, concern etched across her features. I hold up my thumb and manage a watery smile until I can speak.
“Yep,” I croak. “Never better.” She pours our coffees into travel mugs, and I watch her fill mine to the exact line I always use. The small act steadies me.
“Bye, mom, dad! See you over Thanksgiving!” she calls out as we race down the front steps.
“Gah, I couldn’t stand there for another second. All they care about is their perfect son and him going to the NFL.” She pretends to gag, and I can’t help but smile.
Kinsley has always lived in Kane’s shadow. I’ve always lived in my own cage. I think we’ve bonded over that.
I glance down at my scuffed shoes, left lace double-knotted, right lace tucked in. My parents aren’t here to see me off. They’re probably somewhere recovering from their latest bender. The thought makes my chest tighten, so I count my steps to the car. Twelve. Even. Safe.
We slide into her burnt orange Audi, but when she presses the start button, nothing happens.
“What the hell?” She tries again. Still nothing. A sinking feeling hits before I even see him. Kane jogs down the front steps, tossing his keys in the air, catching them with lazy precision. He stops beside the car, that confident gleam in his eye.
Kinsley slams her door and kicks the front tire.
“What’s up, sis?” he asks, a grin firmly in place.
“My stupid car won’t start!” Kins exclaims, throwing her hands up in frustration.
“Pop the hood and let me look.”
“Fine!” She yanks the lever.
I get out, too. The car feels too cramped with all our stuff, and my pulse is already ticking faster than I like. I smooth my shirt twice, then once more for good measure, before stepping onto the driveway.
