Page 3 of You, with a View

I slip the letter back into its hiding place, then flip onto my back, picking my phone up to go comment diving.

But before I can get there, the duvet is unceremoniously ripped off my head. For the second time today, I drop my phone on my face.

“Fuck!” I yell, covering my face with my hands. My flailing legs connect with a body.

“Fuck back!” The familiar voice groans. “You got me in the balls!”

“I can’t hear Cody’s instructions!” Mom puffs over the instructor’s shouts and her Lamaze-adjacent breathing pattern.

I uncover my face to find my younger brother, Thomas, doubled over, his forehead resting on my bed, hands tucked between his legs. His breathing pattern is Lamaze-adjacent, too.

In the middle of all the ruckus, my dad pokes his blond head through my doorway, a bright smile on his face. “Does anyone want eggs Benny? I thought we could do brunch since Thomas is here.”

I rip my scrunched duvet out from under Thomas’s head, yanking it back over my legs. “I would love everyone to get out of my room. Remember my rule about not being in here when I don’t have pants on?”

“I’m almost done,” Mom pants. “I’m about to PR.”

Thomas groans.

God, same. My good eye strays back to my phone as a slew of notifications bubble up onscreen. I’m desperate to check, but I don’t dare in a room full of Shepards who don’t know about any of this.

Thomas rebounds, his sea-green eyes turning sharp with curiosity as he sees my lit-up screen. Looking at him is like looking in a mirror, minus the eleven months between us; we have the same honey-blond hair and dark eyebrows, but my eyes are the color of coffee dregs.

He nods his chin toward my phone. “What’s going on?”

I flip it on its face. “Nothing.”

“Your Tinder blowing up, Beans?” He smirks. “What a catch.”

Dad has disappeared to start on the eggs Benedict, and Mom is busy celebrating the end of her ride, along with her PR. I take a risk, putting both of my middle fingers in Thomas’s face.

“Knock it off, you two,” Mom says, out of breath.

Thomas cackles, sliding out the door. If I didn’t have chronic back pain, I’d swear I was fifteen again. Being in this house makes us both regress.

Mom jumps off the bike, an exhilarated smile on her face. She turns to thebe awesomesign behind her, pulling the string. It only gets illuminated if she feels it’s deserved. It zaps on, the pink light turning her face even redder.

Her dark hair is damp around the edges of her ponytail, and her eyes go soft when they meet mine. Same as they always do lately.

“You good?” she asks, and it’s not perfunctory, exactly, but we both know I’m not.

Still, I say my line with ease. “Yep.”

Her quiet sigh indicates she doesn’t believe me. Fair. I don’t, either. “Well, it’s eleven, so maybe you want to get out of bed?”

Be awesome, indeed.

The unread comments whisper urgently all through brunch. I shovel my dad’s eggs Benedict into my mouth, nearly choking.

Just what I need, death by Canadian bacon.

I’m tempted to pull my phone out no less than one million times, but it’ll invite questions I’m not prepared to answer. My family is nosy on a regular day. Since I had to move home, they’ve turned into helicopters, clearly concerned that I’m one job rejection email away from losing my shit.

I finish my breakfast in record time, slamming my fork down like I’m the winner of a Benny-eating contest no one else entered. “Done, see you.”

“Why, do you have plans?” Thomas asks over the screech of my chair and around a mouthful of food.

“Why, does it matter?” I shoot back.

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