Page 28 of Every Move You Make

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t live here and are capable of buying cereal and coffee on your own.”

“Can’t a guy simply want to spend some quality time with his oldest brother?”

“If he can give some warning.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

I sigh deeply and level him with a stare. “I assume you’ve already eaten my leftover chicken parm?”

“I’m a growing boy,” he smiles.

I push off the counter to head for my shower. “I hate you.”

“Hey, can you give me a ride to Dad’s tonight for family dinner?”

That has me stopping in my tracks to turn back around. “Why? What happened to your car?”

He fiddles with his fingernails. “It, um…”

“Jonah,” I growl.

“I gave it to Shirly—to borrow!” he adds quickly.

“The drug addict that hangs around your block at all hours of the day and night?”

Jonah shrugs. “She said she had a job interview.”

“So let her take the bus!”

“She said she would give it back next week,” he says, as if that’s reasonable.

“Next week?” I bellow. “Why would she— It’s one—” I grunt, then take a deep breath. “She’s never going to give you that car back, bro.”

“You barely know her. She’s really nice.”

“She sells crack, and from the looks of it, she’s her best customer.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a liar.”

I shake my head and sigh. “Just wait until Angie hears about this,” I threaten, giving up and heading back upstairs to shower. Hopefully, the fear of our older sister will knock some sense into him.

“No! Don’t tell her!”

Chapter 12

Family Dinner

Isaiah

Jonah and I arrived at Dad’s house thirty minutes late. When I arrived at my brother's place later that day, he and his two roommates were in the middle of building a bunk bed for his dogs and were covered in sawdust. When I told him they don’t need bunk beds, they need a barn, he gave me this look of realization that sent regret tumbling through my body.

Nothing good can come from Jonah’s brain.

Our childhood home is in a suburb of Philly, and it’s way too small for a family of six. Mom died in a car accident when I was eight, and our family never really recovered from her death. Angie definitely took over as our mother figure at only ten years old, while Dad faded into a shadow of himself. It wasn’t until about a year ago—to the shock of us all—that Dad started going to therapy and grief counseling.

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