I don’t know if he’s right about his parenting skills, but I see that distance in the way he handles his relationships with women. Hell, I saw it in my own, too. Or, rather, I saw it until Jackson.
“What’s the matter with you?” Cass snaps the question at Ethan even as she takes my hand and squeezes. “You’ve told me she’s a little angel, right?”
“She is,” I say, glancing at my brother as if to underscore the point. But the moment I see his face, I regret looking that way.
I see all the years of my childhood. All of my pain—most of which he doesn’t even know about. I see the way my mother ignored me. I see my anger at my father and his distance toward me.
I see the fragility of children, and the knowledge that it is so easy to fuck up a life.
I see it, because that fragile child stares back at me every morning from the mirror, and the woman she is now has no idea how to be a mom. Hell, that girl isn’t even certain how she survived childhood.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say.
“Oh, shit. Syl—”
“Forget it, Ethan. It’s okay. It’s just been a long, weird couple of days. And the fact is, Ronnie’s not really at the top of the problem pile, you know? Keeping Jackson out of jail is what’s keeping me up at night. Not whether or not I’ll be watching Sesame Street every morning.”
I turn pointedly to Cass. “So. All well with Siobhan?”
Thankfully, Cass understands my need to change the subject. “Everything is perfect,” she says. “I’m in that lovey-dovey floaty place.” She releases an exaggerated sigh and then pats her hand rapidly over her heart. “I’m all pitty-pat and gooey and sweet. It’s disgusting, really. On anyone else, I’d want to smack them for being a walking case of sugar shock. But I’m just giddily floating along.”
I lean over to shoulder-butt her, then raise my brows as I look at my brother. “Of course, she’d drop Siobhan in a heartbeat if Kirstie Ellen Todd was available and willing.”
Cass tosses her hand up to her forehead like a Victorian-era woman with the vapors. “Alas, she’s off the market again. She and Graham Elliott made up. Pregnant,” she adds in a stage whisper.
Ethan looks at me, a little hesitant at first, but then his grin widens with Cass’s antics.
“She has a little crush,” I say.
“Hell, who can blame her? Todd is hot.”
“Exactly,” Cass says. “Of course, Siobhan is hotter. Be still my heart.”
Ethan tosses an olive from his drink at her, and I ask Ethan about his love life.
“Happily non-monogamous,” he says. “Or did you miss the part where I pointed out that Laguna Beach is like a buffet of hot women?”
“Neanderthal.”
“And proud of it.”
We move from insults to his house hunt. “All I really need is two bedrooms in a complex with an exercise room. I’m not picky, you know? Mostly I just want to get out of Mom and Dad’s house.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say dryly, and beside me Cass grabs my hand under the table. She’s known part of my story for years, but it’s only been recently that I told her about my dad’s role in what happened to me as a teen. Ethan doesn’t know any of that, and I will go to my grave protecting that secret.
“Dad said he’s been calling you,” Ethan says. “I really think—” He cuts himself off. “You know what? Never mind.”
I should just drop it, but I don’t. “You really think what?”
“I just think—you know. You should see what he has to say.” He doesn’t look at me when he answers, and the tuna sits uncomfortably in my stomach. Because I have no interest in hearing what my dad has to say. And Ethan knows that.
Beside me, Cass winces, and I realize that I’ve been squeezing her hand so hard it’s a wonder the bones are still solid. I shoot her a silent apology and release her hand. As for Ethan, I just shake my head. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“He pissed you off at dinner,” he says, referring to the dinner he, Jackson, and I shared with my parents the night Ethan got home from London. The night that Jackson—damn him—told my dad what Reed did to me.
“I get that,” Ethan continues. “But don’t you think—”
“No.” I really was pissed as hell at Jackson, and we worked past it. But that doesn’t mean I want to get all warm and fuzzy with my father. That, in fact, is the last thing I want.
“Silly . . .” He trails off, leaving my nickname hanging in the air.
I pull out my phone and check the time. “Listen, I have to go,” I lie. “I told Jackson I’d meet him after drinks.”
“Shit, now you’re mad.”
“I’m not,” I say. “Really. Just don’t push me on this, okay?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Don’t,” he adds, when I start to put cash on the table. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later, all right?” I lean over and give Cass a hug. She squeezes tight, whispering, “Are you okay?” I nod in reply, then give her another squeeze.
Ethan stands as I leave, and I hug him close. “I love you. But I can’t deal with—”
“Yeah,” he says, then shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. “I know.”
I’m still not sure what’s up with my brother. I mean, I get that he wishes we could be one big, happy family. I wish that, too. Or I used to, a long time ago. But I’ve made peace with the fact that my parents are not and never will be part of my inner circle. Or, frankly, my outer circle. And I wish that Ethan could make peace with that, too. Because if he’s going to keep pushing on the parental reunion thing every time we get together, that’s going to get ugly.
I want my brother, but I really, really don’t want the baggage.
I’m in the car and firing up the engine when I see Ethan sprinting toward me. I’d parked next to my parents’ silver Camry, but I don’t think Ethan is racing for his car. No, he’s making a beeline to me.
I roll down my window. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know. I get that. I’m sorry,” he says. “Listen, can I get in for just a sec?”
“I—okay.” I adore my brother too much to deny him—or to stay mad at him. “Get in.”
He does, and then he just sits there. His hands are in his lap, and he’s picking at his cuticles. It’s a habit that he broke when he was a freshman in college, and seeing him doing it now only reinforces what I’ve already figured out—whatever he has to tell me, it’s bad. And while I’d started out thinking that this was about me or our father, now I’m wondering if there’s something else on his mind.
“Are you in trouble?” I ask.
“No—no, I’m fine. Well,” he adds with an odd little shrug, “I’m not fine. But that’s not the point. Oh, hell. Listen, I want to say I’m sorry about that. About Jackson’s little girl, I mean. It’s just that you surprised me. And I was on edge after the stuff with Dad yesterday, and—shit. Dammit, I wasn’t going to say anything about that. Fuck.”
“Is he sick? Come on, Ethan, you’re scaring me.” I may not have the greatest relationship with my dad—hell, I may not have any relationship with my dad—but I don’t wish him ill. If for no other reason than I know that losing our father would hurt Ethan.
Beside me, my brother takes a deep breath. And then, very fast, he says, “He told me.”
For a moment, I truly don’t have any idea what Ethan is talking about. But then the horror sets in. My stomach twists into a knot, and my hand slowly rises to my mouth. I want to cry out, to protest, but I can’t seem to form words.
“Oh, god, Syl. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands. He’s breathing hard. He may be crying.