Page 4 of The Other Brother
“I thought he didn’t drink.”
Her words cause irritation to pound through my veins. It’s part of the theme song that continuously plays in the background of my life. Cody the saint. Cody, the brilliant musician. Cody, the amazing brother.
I’m pretty sure I was permanently disqualified from the favorite brother race at age four when I gave military-spec crew cuts to Mel and Kate’s Barbies, but even so, the knowledge that my sisters prefer their other half-brother always sits like undercooked meat in my stomach.
“If you like, I can send you strong photographic evidence that Cody does actually drink,” I say.
“Okay, okay. Where are you now?”
“I’m by his front door. But he’s lost his keys.”
“There’s a spare one hidden under the blue flowerpot.”
Because my night color identification superpower is on the blink, I fumble around, lifting random pots before my fingers close over metal.
“Got it.”
“His room is the second door down the hallway on the left. Be quiet, Dad and Heather’s room is at the end.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Look after him, okay?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
I hang up on Kate, and channeling my inner stealth skills, gently unlock the door.
But trying to be quiet when you’re escorting a drunk through a house you’re not familiar with is like trying to waltz with an uncoordinated giraffe.
At 6'1", I’ve got a few inches on Cody, and I’m bigger too, so I half drag, half carry him down to his room.
I’ve never been in Cody’s room before. I leave the lights off, but there’s enough light coming in the window from a streetlamp that I can navigate my way around. It’s tidy, which helps. Of course he keeps his room tidy. I wouldn’t expect anything less. We stumble toward his bed, and I manage to haul him onto the mattress.
Cody immediately nestles into the pillows, his eyes closed.
I stand over him, looking down. I don’t want to undress him, because that’s taking this whole Ryan-rescue thing way too far. But I probably should at least take off his shoes.
I grab one of his Converse sneakers and tug. It sticks. I loosen the laces and try again.
It comes off just as light floods the room.
Blinking, I turn around, his shoe in my hand.
His mum stands in the doorway. My stomach hollows. She’s the lesser of the two evils, but not by much. I’ve heard a lot about Heather from Mel and Kate, who in their teenage years had a Cinderella complex toward their stepmother. She doesn’t look much like an evil stepmother now, though; she looks like a middle-aged woman who’s been woken unexpectedly. She’s got curly hair like Cody, only her curls are gray and currently sticking out in all directions.
The light causes Cody to stir, and he opens his eyes and turns his head towards the door.
“Hey, Mum,” he mumbles.
“Cody.” It’s impossible to imagine more disapproval could be squeezed into one word. She stalks over to the bed and stands over him.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a… little.” Cody’s not helping his cause by trying to sit up against the headboard and failing.
She swings her gaze to me. “How did he get so drunk?”
Shit. She hasn’t recognized me. It shows exactly how messed up things are between our families. Cody’s mum has seen me lots at Mel and Kate’s stuff over the years. Granted, I’ve probably spoken about twenty words to her in that time. And, the last time I saw her, my hair was still shoulder length, not short and spiky and bleached like now.
