Page 91 of Lust
“Because smoking causes cancer.”
“Then why do you smoke?”
“Because I’m an adult.”
“So, you are allowed to give yourself cancer?”
“Something like that.”
Shrugging her shoulders, the stubborn bane of my existence stayed on the righteous path. “Well, if you get cancer, I want to get cancer with you. If we can’t both be alive together, then I refuse to die apart.”
I froze, my bated breaths leaving me in spurts.
I narrowed my eyes at the little monster, hoping to set fire to her hair. A part of me was proud that Sara knew how to play her opponent. The other part of me was annoyed that she was doing it to me. Sara was on a mission to make me quit smoking, a habit she had always admonished me for.
My annoyance was tampered down by a variant of other mixed emotions. Although a long shot, my heart exploded at the idea of someone willing to follow me into death. By the same token, if anything happened to my little Sara, my sole connection on this earth would be ripped away.
Drawing my hand back, I chucked the pack of cigarettes into the dark night. The leaves rustled as the object disappeared into the wild bushes.
“Happy?” I sneered, not bothering to look at her. Sara was no doubt smiling broadly.
Without turning, I braced my hand against her shoulders and shoved her off the ledge and into the bushes behind.
That little shit thought she could manipulate me.
Excitement coursed through me as I sauntered back into the house. Sara was no doubt picking leaves off her pretty dress. Any moment now, she’d charge in here to embarrass me or do something equally silly as payback.
To my shock, none of those things happened.
My wandering eyes searched for her livid return. Where was she?
This was ridiculous.
I was to become a congressman, eventually a senator. This event was a fundraiser in the guise of a celebration for Sara. Mary and Ragu threw this grand party in hopes of my imminent success. They quit their jobs, staked their lives, and invested everything into my future because they believed in me. I needed to schmooze instead of anticipating one of my sister’s pranks.
Yet, my eyes searched for her.
My parents pulled me in every which way for introductions. I tried to engage in the conversations at hand, a feat that was difficult to accomplish with my eyes in the back of my head.
Sara never came.
My gaze finally landed on two lone figures on the deck. They were standing close and practicing what I recognized as Sara’s dance for the ball. And the boy, of eighteen or nineteen, was staring at Sara like a besotted fool.
I froze.
The oddest thought crossed my mind.
For the first time, Sara didn’t exact vengeance. She forgot our payback-based ritual, and it was because of that boy. It bothered me more than I cared to admit.
Of course, my sister was bound to get a boyfriend, get married someday, and have a family of her own outside the perimeters of ours. But with the evidence of Sara growing up, the reality of what it meant came crashing down.
I’d lose her once those things happened.
She would have her own life and forget about something stupid, like sparring with me, because her significant other would take precedence. She’d move on, leaving me in the dust.
I stared at the two teens holding hands, practicing their dance, enamored with one another. A strange constriction tightened my chest, almost to the unbecoming point of breathing.
My fingers made a fist, a finite grip that turned my knuckles white. The shallow breaths were probably visible from miles away. More than once, I reminded myself that I couldn’t create a scene, and more than once, I almost lost the argument to myself.
