Page 3 of Undisputed Chaos
He was waiting on the steps of the gym, all petulance and tall height, his dark blonde hair, a shade deeper than mine, flopped over his forehead in need of a cut.
"You look like a Bratz doll," he announced, throwing his duffel bag into my backseat. It landed with a thud that made me cringe.
"Thank you?" I wasn't sure if that was a compliment coming from a high school senior.
"It wasn't a compliment."
He buckled his seatbelt, already reaching for my phone to change the music. "Why are you so dressed up to pick me up from soccer practice?"
I batted his hand away from my carefully curated playlist. "I'm not dressed up. This is just how I dress."
"For your videos, maybe. You used to wear normal clothes."
He gestured vaguely at my outfit: a ruffled skirt, a jacket, and a tank top underneath. "Now you dress like you're from some old movie.”
"Yet you’re wearing basketball shorts with dress socks." I retorted as I pulled away from the curb, merging into the traffic flow.
"And my followers like my style. The cardigan video from last week got over a few hundred thousand views."
Crew's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? For a cardigan?"
"It's called fashion, Crew. Look it up."
I tossed him a smirk, feeling the familiar warmth of sibling banter wash over me. "Besides, it pays for your Christmas presents."
"Fair point. Carry on with your Bratz doll aesthetic."
The rest of the drive to our parents' house was filled with Crew's dramatic retelling of soccer practice politics—who wasn't passing to whom, which freshman was trying too hard, how the coach had yelled at them for ten minutes straight about proper hydration.
I half-listened, letting the familiar cadence of his voice wash over me as we wound through the neighborhoods of our childhood.
Our parents' house came into view, a white colonial with cut lawn and spring flowers lining the walkway. It looked like something from a magazine spread, the kind of place where nothing bad ever happened.
And it hadn't, not really. I'd grown up sheltered in the best possible way, protected from the harshness of the world by parents who could afford to keep reality at bay.
Sometimes I wondered if that was why I didn’t care for independence now. If having everything handled for me had somehow wired my brain to seek that same safety in my relationships.
My relationship with Noah had proven that theory wrong. His version of love had been lacking rather than fulfilling, always leaving me wanting more.
I pushed away thoughts of him as I parked in the driveway. That chapter was closed, and I was better for it, even if sometimes late at night, I wondered if being alone was really better than being with someone who at least acted like they loved me.
Those thoughts only came in the darkest hours, when the apartment felt too big and my bed too empty, when the comments and likes couldn't fill the space beneath my ribs.
"You've got paint on your wrist," Crew pointed out as we walked to the front door. "Mom's going to freak if you stain her good towels again."
I glanced down, noticing the smear of ultramarine blue that had somehow evaded my notice. "I'll use the kitchen sink."
The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes, the rich aroma of Dad's cooking filling every corner.
Mom was in the kitchen, hair pulled back in a neat braid as she tossed a salad in a bowl that was far too fancy for a weeknight dinner.
Dad stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, some opera music playing.
"My children!" Mom exclaimed, as though we'd returned from war rather than from across town.
"Crew, go wash up. You smell like a locker room. Isla, baby, you look beautiful—is that a new outfit for your videos?"
I accepted her kiss on my cheek, breathing in her familiar perfume. "Just something I threw together."
