Page 6 of Heartless Stepbrother
Mum looked… different. Lighter somehow. Not just thinner or tanned in the flattering way sunshine kisses skin, butbright. There was a flicker in her eyes I hadn’t seen in years, not since before the divorce. Back when things were still held together by dinners at the table and long talks over tea that I used to eavesdrop on from the hallway.
Now, she practically floated beside me. Her steps were buoyant, as if her feet had learned how to never touch the ground.
And despite everything crashing inside me, it was beautiful to witness.
Her happiness.
A small, fragile comfort in the middle of my storm.
We slipped into easy conversation as we waited at the carousel, surrounded by the tired hush of other reunions and vacationers fresh off the plane. She dove into wedding details with the breathless energy of someone trulyin it, florists who brought the wrong color orchids, last-minute seating plan dramas, a missing shipment of candles she’d sourced from some bespoke shop in San Francisco. Her hands moved as she spoke, animated and alive.
I listened. I smiled. I gave her pieces of myself too, but carefully. I told her about finishing the term, about the boring exams and the indifferent cafeteria food. But I left out the things that mattered.
The way Chiara had clung to me, mascara streaked and fierce, whispering promises that felt like lies.
The way Sienna had slipped a bracelet into my hand, saying,Don’t forget who you are when everything changes.
And I definitely didn’t tell her about the messages.
No. I kept that tucked inside. I didn’t want to fracture the bubble my mother lived in now, not when she finally had something close to joy.
The belt groaned into motion, suitcases tumbling out like discarded memories, and I spotted mine, battered, loyal, smeared with airport stickers from a childhood lived half in the air.
I tugged it free, and she didn’t even let me carry it.
“Come,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Marcus sent a car.”
Outside, the heat wrapped around us like silk, heavy and sweet. A sleek black SUV waited at the curb, its windows tinted obsidian, reflecting palm trees and the still blushing sky.
“Marcus arranged it,” she said again, like the name still tasted new on her tongue. There was something almost girlish in the way she said it, part pride, part disbelief, like she hadn’t quite accepted this version of her life wasreal.
Comfortable.
That was the word she used.
But the luxury felt foreign. Unfamiliar. The car’s interior smelled of new leather and something spicy, expensive. A stark contrast to the worn cloth and dust of Dad’s ancient Subaru.
I climbed in and stared out the window as the island unfolded around us.
It was beautiful. Devastatingly so.
The road curved like a ribbon through a world that looked too vivid to be real. Lush jungle pressed in on either side, bursting with wild green and flowers so bright they looked painted. Hibiscus in blood reds and electric yellows. Banyan trees draped in moss. The occasional blur of wild chickens pecking at roadside gravel.
And the ocean, oh,the ocean.
It glittered in the distance like a secret. Endless turquoise framed by black volcanic cliffs, waves rolling in slow, seductive rhythm.
Mum kept pointing things out. The historic lighthouse perched on a cliff, the fruit stand where she and Marcus had once bought the sweetest mangoes, a secret beach only locals knew how to find. Her voice was light, almost singsong, and I couldn’t help it. My lips curved.
I smiled. For real.
Not the forced, practiced kind I’d worn in the airport. But the kind that slipped in when you forget you’re supposed to be unhappy.
This.
Thiswas the part I’d missed most.
Her.
