Page 12 of Mexico Can Choke On It
To Petra Brinkman—Gavin’s fiery little sister, whom I nicknamed Pip. It’s been two years since I last laid eyes on her. Her jet-black hair, pale skin, and full red lips were unmistakably the same, but still… She seemed different.
A snort of laughter escapes as I recall her horrified expression at today’s meeting. The sight of her unleashing a tsunami of water, taking out the entire Zoom session.
Poor Gavin. He’s got his hands full trying to harness that tornado. He loves his sister fiercely, always has, but Pip has never been one to color inside the lines. The idea of her conforming to corporate culture is about as plausible as my father showing genuine emotion. Oil and water. Fire and ice. Petra and rules.
Teenage Petra was all attitude and eyeliner. Her smart mouth was always loaded and ready to fire, especially in my direction. “Hey, Moneybags,” she’d say. “Decide which country you’re buying today?”
The music shifts, one ballad fading into another. The first, yearning notes of Heart’s “Alone” fill the room, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.
Dammit.
Not this song.
Not this memory.
But it’s too late.
I see it like it’s happening again.
The moment I’ve locked away breaks free, playing as vividly as if it happened yesterday, not seven years ago.
Petra’s high school graduation party. The one no one came to.
I remember standing in her bedroom doorframe. A vintage record player sat atop a milk crate playing this song. Rock band posters were plastered over her walls. Her desk was cluttered with sketchbooks and colored pencils.
“Pip? Just wanted to say goodbye.”
She looked up at me from where she sat on the bed.
Crying.
Knees pulled to her chest.
Graduation gown crumpled on the ground.
Mascara smudged under wet, furious eyes.
She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Guess you jet-setted over here for nothing, Moneybags,” she snarked. “Well, at least you got your daily dose of watching the peasants fail.”
I’d never seen Petra vulnerable.
Angry? Constantly.
Sarcastic? Her native language.
But sad? Actually wounded? This was uncharted territory, and it made my chest hurt in ways I didn’t have words for.
“You deserve better than this,” I said simply.
“Wow. Did your butler teach you that line, or did you come up with it all by yourself?”
The mattress dipped as I sat awkwardly at the end of her bed.
She glanced down, avoiding eye contact. “Don’t worry. I’m used to disappointment.”
“You’re tenacious, Pip. Always have been,” I said, the words drawn from some concealed part of me. “Intelligent. Unapologetic. You’re extraordinary. You don’t require anyone’s validation.”
For one unguarded second, her chin lifted, eyes wide with genuine surprise. Then—and I still have whiplash from how fast it happened—she lunged forward, grabbed my shirt with surprising strength for someone her size, and kissed me.
