My big fucking brother.
“What happened to your face?” he asks as soon as I stop, eyeing my jaw where Lucas took a shot at me only an hour ago.
“That’s very rude. I was born this way.”
“Did you get in a fight?”
“If you have a problem with it though, you should take it up with Mom.”
He stares at me for a few seconds before he deadpans, “She’s in Italy for the summer.”
“Ah, well it shall remain a mystery then.”
His lips twitch for a second or two or at least, it looks like it. But it can’t be true; my brother has zero sense of humor.
“Where’s your helmet?” he asks next.
“Back in New York.”
Disapproval lines his features like I knew it would.
That’s why I lied.
It’s back in my room,somewhere. I’m reckless but I’m not so reckless that I’d forget my helmet in a different city.
“Not exactly a smart choice,” he says then, “when you’re riding that death machine.”
“It’s also the machine that might help remove that stick up your ass. So maybe you should try it sometime.”
He glances at my bike before saying, “No, thank you.”
I shrug. “Fine. Be that way.”
He stares at me for a few moments. Then, “You’re staying at a motel.”
“Should probably ask you how you know that. Or how you knew that I was going to be here, at the gym, and that it’s fucking creepy that my own brother is stalking me, but I guess why bother, yeah? It’s not as if you’re gonna stop.”
“I won’t, no. But it’s not me personally who’s stalking you,” he says. “I have a guy. And from what he told me, these are the only two places you’ve been frequenting since you came back.”
I have.
Actually, these are the only two places I go towheneverI come back. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve been back. Not that I’ve told anyone as to why I come back — it’s not anyone’s business — and I only come back during summer for a few weeks.
So far my brother has never cared, but apparently something’s changed this summer.
“So when you didn’t show up at the motel, I came here,” he finishes. Then, he reaches into his suit’s breast pocket and fishes out a very pristine looking handkerchief. “Although I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed being here.”
First: I can’t believe I’m even saying the word, handkerchief.
Second: my brother always carries one.
With his initials embroidered on them in black: HAD.
Homer Alexander Davidson.
And third: with a flourish, he opens that piece of cloth and wipes his fingers.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I can’t help but ask.