Page 85 of The Front Runner
“For…” God, where do I even start. “The course your life has taken.”
She scrunches her face and shakes her head like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I’m not. Not everything happens for a reason. Some things happen because we make the conscious decision to stop letting shit happen to us. And no matter what, you’re my brother. We’re family. DNA doesn’t change a damn thing.”
I swallow. My little sister is usually nonchalant. Carefree. A pain in my ass. But today she feels more like a big sister, hitting me with all the things I need to hear.
“Don’t blow it with Mira.”
Except that. I don’t want to hear that.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Her brow arches. “You spew an awful lot of bullshit for someone who goes on about valuing honesty.”
“I—”
One hand shoots up to stop me. “Stefan, stop. I know you guys are together. She told us.”
My stomach bottoms out. “What?”
“Yeah. Girls’ night. Billie said something bitchy about you, and Mira wasn’t having it. Told us all that you guys were a thing. Or whatever. I stopped listening because it was gross—you’re still my brother.” She shudders.
She told them.I was certain she planned on keeping us a secret. She’s so hard to get a read on. She keeps her cards so close. Why wouldn’t she have told me this? That was the night I showed up at her apartment because she missed me.
“At any rate,” my sister continues, “don’t let her get away. She’s the best thing that has ever happened to you. And you have a bad habit of not letting good things happen to yourself.”
The doorbell rings, effectively cutting off our conversation. Which works for me because I’m still irrationally angry with Mira. I’m still not ready to forgive her.
I don’t know if I can.
But all thoughts of Mira flee my mind when I swing the front door open and stare back into eyes that are exactly like mine. I’ve never taken a very close look at Hank. The dark golden hair swooped back off his face, the deep lines on his tan skin from years spent in the sun, his broad shoulders and trim waist. He’s fit for his age—whatever that is. Strong in a way only a lifetime of manual labor can achieve.
“I have a feeling that you and I should chat.”
He smiles, but it’s a nervous smile. Not the typical happy-go-lucky grin that I’ve seen him sporting. The man couldn’t be less like Constantin if he tried. Looks wise, personality wise, life wise. It’s something I instantly love about him.
I give him a nervous smile of my own. “Come on in.” I hold the door open wide and gesture with my arm for him to enter. “Coffee?” I ask, walking away toward the kitchen, trying to catch my breath and looking for something to fix the dry throat situation I have going.
“Got anything harder?” Hank chuckles.
I’ve never heard a better idea in my life. Instead of reaching for the coffee, I reach into the cupboard above the sink and pull out a bottle of bourbon and two whiskey glasses.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.” I hold them up and face the man who is most likely my father.
He chuckles again. It’s warm and comforting, and genuinely happy. I ache for that sound. The sound I missed growing up. And when he winks at me, my mind flashes with moments in my life when I missed that exact look. My graduation. Swim meets. I could have hadthat.
I clear my throat and will the emotion clouding my eyes away. “Living room is that way.”
Once we’re both seated on the plush leather couches with a healthy two-finger pour of whiskey in hand, Hank leans back, arm over the back of the couch, and lets his eyes soak me in. I can feel him analyzing me, cataloguing our similarities with a small, sad smile on his lips. I wonder how this must feel for him.
I’m about to ask when he says, “So, Stefan, tell me about your life.”
And I do. I start at the very beginning, and I leave absolutely nothing out.
* * *
I’m drunk.It’s eleven a.m. on a Wednesday, and I’m drunk.
With my dad.
