Page 48 of Kisses and Paperclips

His jaw tightened, but I kept going.

“I know you want to believe he’s changed. I do too, sometimes. But a man like that? He doesn’t just wake up one day and decide to be a father. He’s a user, Zamir. And a leopard doesn’t change its spots just because it puts on a new coat.”

He stared at me, his expression a mix of hurt and hope.

“What if you’re wrong?” he asked softly. “What if he’s different this time? What if he’s sorry?”

I looked at my baby brother, sitting across from me in this house I’d fought to keep. The kid I’d sacrificed everything for. And I wanted so badly to let him hold onto that hope. But I’d lived too much, seen too much.

And I couldn’t let him get burned the way I had.

???

After dinner, I caved.

Not because I was soft, at least, not in the way Zamir thought. But because guilt has a way of curling up beside you when the house goes quiet and your little brother looks at you like you’re the only lighthouse he’s got.

I wanted to be firm. Wanted to hold the line and teach him the hard truths life taught me too early. But asking him to shut the door on a man I barely figured out how to lock out myself? That didn’t sit right.

He doesn’t know what happened the last time I let our father in, how close we came to losing everything. The house. His school. The sense of safety I fought tooth and nail to build for him. For us.

And he doesn’t need to. Some burdens belong to me.

So instead of unpacking that with a fifteen-year-old, I tossed him the remote, grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch, and let him cue up his favorite comfort show like we hadn’t just tiptoed across emotional landmines at the dinner table.

A couple episodes before bed? That I could give him.

Because love, the kind you fight for, the kind that shapes your spine and softens your heart at the same time, it doesn’t always sound like I forgive you or I understand. Sometimes, it just sounds like SVU reruns and shared silence. Like showing up, even when your spirit feels threadbare and worn. Like letting someone lean on you when you’re not sure you have anything left to give.

And that’s what it’s always been with me and Zamir.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table.

What are you wearing?

I blinked. Area code 718. No name, but I didn’t need one. That level of bold only belonged to one man.

Julien Brooks.

I picked up the phone, exhaled through my nose, and typed:

Who is this?

Come on, baby. You know who it is.

I snorted. Baby? He had the nerve.

I didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the message, already hearing his smug voice in my head, already seeing that cocky half-smile he wore like cologne.

Then I typed back:

Just screenshotted this for HR.

You gonna tell HR about the other night while you’re at it?

Maybe. If it helps get you out of my seat.

Damn. Plotting a takeover and kicking me out my own chair?

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