Just Don't Mention It

  “Not hungry?” Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen. She gives me a small, warm smile just like she always does, and I’m so glad she does, because I really need it right now.

  “Not really,” I mumble with a hopeless shrug. I prop my elbow up on the table and rest my chin on my palm, my gaze following Mom as she grabs my plate and carries it away.

  “We’re taking your brothers to the Dodgers game tonight,” she casually muses over her shoulder. She tips the remainder of my food into the trash, then slides the plate into the dishwasher. As she turns around to face me again, she leans back against the countertop. Her smile has become a knowing one. “So wherever you end up sneaking out to tonight, look after yourself. Nothing stupid, Tyler.” The way she arches her eyebrow at me is stern, and I know what she means. No drinking, no smoking, no staying out all night.

  I frown back at her and shift my attention back to the yard. The sun is shining, its rays bouncing off the pool water, but I find it easy to focus on. I don’t want to disappoint her tonight, though I know I will.

  “Tyler,” Mom says quietly, her tone different all of a sudden. Warily, she sits down next to me, her eyebrows pinching with worry. I don’t like it when she looks at me like that. My heartbeat races that tiny bit faster as my eyes meet hers. “I found something last night,” she murmurs, voice breaking. She pulls something from her pocket and softly sets it down in front of me. Her blue eyes dilate with the heartache she is feeling and she presses one hand to her chest, the other on my back. “We must have missed it.”

  I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. She gives me an encouraging nod, and then I glance down at the object she’s placed in front of me. It’s a photograph. A photo from forever ago. A photo of Dad and me. My chest tightens and I stare down at the memory in front of me as Mom soothingly rubs my back. She stays silent, giving me time to process it.

  In the photograph, we’re at the pier on the boardwalk. It’s just getting dark, the sky a mixture of blue and pink streaks as the sun dips below the ocean behind us. I’m young, maybe six or seven, and I’m grabbing onto Dad’s arm, huddled in close to him. Dad’s young too, and as I look at him now, his smile beaming back at me and his green eyes full of warmth, I realize that we are similar. The older I get, the more I see it. Our eyes are identical. We have the same tanned skin. The same dark hair and thick eyebrows. The same damn jawline.

  We were both happy back then. The bad days hadn’t started yet. I can still remember the first time Dad hit me. I was eight, and I was confused, and he told me it would never happen again, and I believed him.

  I don’t realize my fists are clenched under the table until Mom places her hand over mine. She massages my skin with her thumb until slowly, I relax my hands. She doesn’t like it when I get mad, but she knows that sometimes I can’t control it. That’s another similarity that Dad and I share: our short temper.

  “Do what makes you feel better,” Mom whispers, and she slides something into my hand and closes my fingers around it. When I look at her, feeling more somber than angry, she gives me a small, sad smile. She stands up and places her hand on my shoulder, kisses my temple, and then walks away, giving me the space I need.

  I glance down and open my hand. In my palm, there’s a lighter.

  When I was fifteen, my rage had been manifesting for three years and it had become so unbearable that I needed to find a release that was more satisfying than just getting high. I wanted to wipe away all of the memories I had of Dad, even the good ones. I wanted him completely out of my life. Mom would have done anything to make me feel better. She still would. That’s why we went up into the attic together and pulled out all of the old photo albums from my childhood. As much as it hurt her, she let me set up a fire in our backyard and burn all of the photos of Dad and me. It felt good at the time, but even that wasn’t enough to let me move on. I still think about him every day.

  I get to my feet and grab the photograph in front of me. I take the lighter with me too as I walk over to the patio doors, sliding them open and stepping outside into the warm, fresh air. The slight breeze feels nice and refreshing. I sit down on the lawn by the edge of the pool and I pull my knees up to my chest, holding up the photograph again and dangling it from my fingertips.

  I look at my smile again. Then at Dad’s, and I think, Fuck him. Fuck Dad for ruining my life.

  I hold up the lighter to the bottom corner of the photograph, and I don’t even hesitate to spark it up, watching numbly as the flame latches onto the photo. It spreads fast, turning a younger version of me to blackened crisp first, and then Dad. His face is disappearing into ash, and I let the photo fall into the pool, feeling relief as it begins to disintegrate in the water.

  I wish the pain could disappear too.

  * * *

  My mood is even lower than it was this morning. None of Declan’s crew are allowed to swing by Rachael’s party tonight, and if Rachael knew I was involved too, I wouldn’t be allowed, either. It’s frustrating, because tonight of all nights, I’m craving a high that’s stronger than weed. And if I can’t find that at the party, then I’ll get it on my own. That’s why I’m meeting Declan in a couple hours before I head over to Rachael’s.

  It’s just after seven and I have the house to myself, but it’s still too early to get ready so I leave my room, about to head downstairs to watch TV for a while, when I catch Eden climbing the stairs with a dress over her arm. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” I inform her with a teasing smirk. Tyler Bruce is never in a bad mood. Tyler Bruce doesn’t have anything to feel down about. “They’re at the Dodgers game. The Angels are totally gonna lose,” I add, just in case she’s wondering where our parents are. They’ve abandoned us again, but whatever. I wouldn’t have gone to the game with them even if they’d asked.

  “I know,” Eden says, staring evenly back at me. She doesn’t smile, so I figure she’s still not all that happy to see me, despite the fact that we haven’t crossed paths in what feels like forever. We seem to come and go at different times. “Can you move, please?”

  “Sure,” I say, moving over to allow her to pass. I don’t have the energy to be a complete asshole to her yet, probably because the real me feels like crap. I’m too fed up to pull off a good performance right now. Eden brushes past me, but before she disappears into her room, she pauses and looks at me. “What?”

  “You’re coming to Rachael’s tonight, right?” she asks, her expression curious, her tone gentle.

  “Yeah.” Why does she ask? Does she want me there or something? Probably not. I bet she had her fingers crossed that I was going to say no. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not curious too. I wonder if she’s going. “You’re gonna be there too, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. I’m sort of happy she’s going too, despite what happened at the last party. She questioned me, I got furious and smashed my damn beer, but at least she cared. I think. And if she does care, then it’s more than anyone else ever has. “What time are we heading over there?”

  “What do you mean we?” Eden asks, rolling her eyes. She turns around and pushes open her bedroom door. “I’m walking across the street on my own. Not with you. You can head on over there, Tyler, any time you want,” she murmurs.

  “Chill,” I say under my breath, narrowing my eyes at her. Why is she like this? I’m not even being a jerk to her right now, yet it seems like she still hates me. Which is so damn confusing, because sometimes, when she’s pushing so hard to figure me out, I think she may just be interested in what I have to say.

  Wait. That’s not what I want, though. I want her to hate me. I need her to keep her distance.

  I quickly shake my head as she walks into her room, and I continue downstairs to the living room. I spread out across the couch, turn on the TV, and pretty much snooze for an hour and a half while Eden is upstairs getting ready. I didn’t take my pills this morning, so I’ve done nothing but mope around all day and all evening. I woul
d happily skip this party entirely and just sleep off the rest of this shitty day, but Tyler Bruce doesn’t miss out on parties, especially his friends’ parties, so I force myself to head upstairs at eight thirty to shower. If I am to survive this party, I need a buzz.

  I shower, work some gel into my hair, pull on some black jeans and a black leather jacket, then spray some cologne. I would have a beer or two before I head across to the party, but I need to drive to Declan’s place first, so I hold off for now. I fire him a quick text: Can you hook me up now? A minute later, he replies with a thumbs up and a wink.

  Grabbing my car keys, I slide my phone into my jacket pocket and turn off the lights in my room, then open my door. I step out into the upstairs hall at the exact same moment Eden does, and we come face-to-face with one another again.

  “I’m about to go over there,” she reluctantly tells me, and it sounds like she’s fighting back a sigh. She frowns, and despite telling me earlier that we weren’t heading over to the party together, she asks, “Are you coming with me?”

  I can’t help myself from staring at her. She looks different again, almost like she did at Austin’s party a couple weekends ago, but better. Her dark hair flows down her back in waves and her eyes sparkle with silver, her lashes thick, her eyebrows dark and defined. My eyes travel down her body, taking her in. She’s short, but her heeled shoes make her legs look longer, and this time she’s wearing a dress that suits her. It’s sort of peach, neatly fitted but not too clingy, and my gaze rests a little too long on the cleavage that’s showing through its keyhole design. “I actually gotta head out real quick,” I force out. Suddenly, my mouth has gone dry.

  Eden looks down at the ground and anxiously folds her arms across her chest as though she knows I’m looking. When she glances back up, she asks, “Where?”

  “Just somewhere.” Shit, I hope she’s not about to interrogate me over this too. I don’t want to get mad at her. I never want to see that flash of fear in her eyes again, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. “Just go over,” I tell her, and I am mentally pleading that for once, just once, she listens to me. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “But where are you going?”

  So, she’s really doing this again. She’s really going to question me until I explode. I refuse to break, though. She’s looking at me from beneath those thick, dark eyelashes of hers and I know that she is genuinely concerned. Her glossy pink lips are parted slightly as she waits for my answer. “Damn, Eden.” I throw my hand up into the air and turn away from her, retreating back into the safety of my room, but of course she follows me. She’s so fucking stubborn.

  “Why are you getting mad?” she asks quietly through the darkness of my room. When I look at her, I can see the glisten of her eyes as she stares straight back at me. She is slowly coming into focus. “I’m just asking where you’re going.”

  “I’m going to meet someone, alright?” I shoot back at her, my voice raised, my tone hard. I’m snapping already, way quicker than usual, and I can feel my temper rising up through me. She needs to stop now. “I’ve got shit to pick up and you gotta back off about it.” And right now, I need that shit more than ever.

  Eden goes quiet. I’m watching her expression: a blank canvas that slowly fills with disappointment. “You’re meeting Declan,” she says into the dark silence. It’s a statement. “He’s not going to the party so you’re going out to meet him instead. Right?” She talks slowly, her voice kept low.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. She knows. She fucking knows, and now that she does, she is going to fight against me. I love that she cares, that she challenges me, but right now, I really need her not to. I am desperate. “Just go to the fucking party already,” I hiss at her once I open my eyes again.

  “No,” she says, her voice raised now. Her features sharpen with determination as she takes a step closer to me. “I’m not letting you go out to meet him.”

  “Eden.” I say her name gently, firmly. Then, I step closer to her too, closing that distance between us. I lean down toward her, my face inches from hers, and I lock my eyes on hers. I fix her with the most threatening of glares I can possibly pull off, my eyes sharply narrowed, my anger held captive within them. “You can’t do anything about it.”

  “You’re right,” she states, but her voice is laced with fury and exasperation. She shakes her head at me, her glossy hazel eyes a mixture of everything that I have learned to hate. Disappointment, worry, disapproval, and most of all, pity. She feels sorry for me, and that is the worst feeling in the world. “I can’t do anything about it, because you don’t CARE. You don’t care about the fact that I’m worried that you’re going to overdose one night or have a bad reaction or end up dead. You don’t care about the fact that you’re seventeen and hooked on coke. You don’t, do you?” She pauses for a second, but I’m not giving her an answer, because she already knows that she’s right. “You only care about looking cool at parties, trying to impress people with this whole badass image you’re trying to pull off. It’s PATHETIC.”

  There’s that word again. It’s true, though. I am pathetic. She’s right about that, but she isn’t right about everything. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m only trying to cope; I’m only trying to survive. “That’s not why I do it,” I tell her quietly, shaking my head.

  “Then why?” she desperately pleads. She’s so close to me that the only thing I can focus on is that fucking pity in her gaze, and I can feel the weight of it pressing down on me. “Is it because you’re trying to fit in with those lame friends of yo—”

  “Because it’s a distraction!” I yell at her, cutting her off. Fuck, I said it. I close my eyes so that I don’t have to look at her, so that I don’t have to see that pity for a guy who depends on distractions in order to live another day. I take a minute to console myself, breathing deeply. “It’s a fucking distraction,” I murmur under my breath. I feel like sometimes I have to admit it to myself too.

  Slowly, I open my eyes again and find Eden watching me silently. I’m furious now. Not just at her, but also at myself. I’m mad at myself for being such an idiot and I’m mad that she knows it. I’m mad that she sees straight through me. I’m mad that my facade doesn’t work around her. I’m mad that, for a split second, I see understanding in her hazel eyes.

  “And right now,” I admit, “I could really do with a goddamn distraction.”

  Suddenly, Eden’s hands are reaching out for my jaw as she slams her body into mine. Her lips crash down against mine so fast that I become paralyzed from the shock. I can feel the warmth of her and all of her energy radiating between us, and I close my eyes, absorbing the sensation of her mouth on mine. That fire in my chest fades away, replaced by something new that I can’t quite comprehend. Relief? No, it can’t be. But suddenly I am not thinking about anything else but her. I’m kissing those lips. Those plump, pouty lips that have weakened me for weeks now. I didn’t realize why they had such an effect on me, but I do now—it’s because I wanted to feel those lips against mine. I am just about to reach out to touch her face, to really kiss her, when slowly I feel her pulling away from me.

  My eyes flicker open and meet hers. I stare at her, bewildered, as she retreats away from me. Her gaze has flooded with fear and alarm and I can see her hands trembling. Did she really just do that? Did she really just kiss me?

  Something changes then. A realization hits me hard.

  It is relief I felt. I have spent weeks asking myself what it is about Eden that gets to me so much, asking myself why I like the fact that she cares, asking myself why I can’t just be Tyler Bruce around her like I can with everyone else. And now I finally understand. It’s because I like the damn girl. I like that she gets under my skin. I like that she makes me uncomfortable, that she tests me, that she pushes my boundaries. I like that she cares when no one else does. I like that I don’t have to put on an act around her even though the real me is pathetic and tragic. And I like her husky voice and he
r full lips and her hazel eyes.

  “That wasn’t me. I don’t—I don’t know what that was,” she begins to babble, her voice fragile and husky, just the way I like it as she splutters her words. It’s like she wants to give me an explanation, but she doesn’t have one. I’m staring at her mouth in a daze as her lips move. I am craving their touch again. “I—I don’t—I’m—I’m sorry. I was trying to—to distract you—I—”

  It’s me who reaches out this time. I step forward and cup her face with both hands, pressing my lips down against hers. I’m so desperate to feel them again, and I kiss her as hard as I can, weaving my fingers into her thick hair. My body is against hers again and I don’t realize I’m pushing into her until we hit my bedroom wall. I kiss her for real this time, properly, like the way I should have a second ago. Deeply and intensely, quickly and desperately. She is kissing me back. Our lips are capturing one another’s, her hands are on my chest, she is quivering. I drop my hand to the small of her back and bring her even closer against me, fighting for more, but then I freeze.

  Eden is my stepsister.

  I’m kissing my stepsister.

  Quickly, I break off the kiss and as much as I don’t want to, I force myself to pull away from her. I stop touching her body. I step back. We both stare at each other with the same exact look in our eyes as we breathe heavily through the silence. It’s a look of despair, of guilt.

  She’s realized it too.

  We are stepsiblings.

  31

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  I know something is wrong from the moment I wake up the next morning. My wrist is swollen and throbbing, and I’m flinching in pain every time I so much as flex a finger. I’m in agony as I get dressed, and I feel sick at the thought of heading downstairs for breakfast. There is no possible way to hide the band-aid on my forehead from Mom, so as I force my battered body down the staircase one step at a time, I begin to rack my brain for a new excuse, one that I’ve never used before. I can’t tell her I fell down the stairs again, because there’s no way I’m that clumsy.