Page 15 of We Shouldn't Be Together
“Say that to Mom,” Freddy says, and then turns back down the hall.
When I exhale, there’s an ache in my chest, like I’ve been holding onto that air for an hour. I rub my sweaty palms against my sides and wince at the sting. I lift my hands and see eight half-moons embedded across my palms.
Swallowing the grossness seeping out of my twisting stomach, I turn back toward my bedroom. Scuffing my shoes along the carpet, I’m distracted by something in my brother Drew’s bedroom.
“Whoa!” I shout, pushing open the ajar door. “What are you doing?”
Drew’s lanky frame hunches over his desk as he runs a cigarette lighter’s flame across a wooden ruler.
“As Dad would say,” Drew drawls, twirling the flame against the singeing wood, “Nothing productive.”
“Drew,“ I shriek, rushing toward him. I yank the hand holding the lighter and blow air at the ruler. “Stop it! Are you crazy?”
“Relax, Tab,” Drew says, still hunched as his eyes wander the thin wooden tool in his hand. “It wasn’t gonna completely catch fire.”
“Can you just turn the lighter off?”
He mumbles a laugh, planting the now-off lighter on the desk. “So touchy, Tabby.”
“Is it reallytouchynot to want the house to catch fire?”
Drew rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d let that happen?”
I fold my arms and turn away from him. “I really don’t know what you’d do these days.”
“Well, I’d never endanger my family. Or do you not believe that either?”
I release my elbows and turn back to my oldest brother. “Of course, I believe that.”
“I heard the screaming match,” Drew says, reclining back on his chair and combing his fingers through his long, bleached hair. Dad was not happy when he destroyed his dark hair.
“I wouldn’t call itscreaming,“ I deflect, focusing on the jester tattooed on the inside of Drew’s forearm.
“You screamed your way into my room.” He smiles to himself. “What’d ya do this time?”
“Nothing. Mom’s totally overreacting.”
“Is that so? What’s your tactic when Dad comes home?”
My stomach drops with dread. “Umm. Well… He won’t be home till late. By then, you’ll probably do something worse, and I won’t even be a topic of discussion.”
His eyebrows lift. “Is that so?”
My gaze flicks to the lighter. “I just caught you trying to light something on fire. Why do you have that lighter, anyway? Oh, no, Drew. Don’t tell me you’ve taken up smoking? For goodness’ sake, Dad’s a doctor. Haven’t you heard enough lectures about lung cancer?”
“Good lord, Tabby,” Drew blurts, sitting upright in his chair. “Would you stop rambling? I’m not smoking. I just like the smoky look of blackened objects.”
Something sour lines the back of my throat. “That’s not creepy at all, Drew.”
He deadpans me. “It’s an art project.”
“Sounds destructive to me.”
“And now, you sound like Dad.”
“Can you blame me?”
“I thought only Golden Boy Freddy was supposed to be a Dr. Jones clone?”
