Chapter 2 #2
Thinking back, I try to recall the last time I went out with a man. I must have been…nineteen. Right around the time we found out about my mom’s diagnosis. The guy—I think his name was Don—looked terrified when I broke down crying on one of our dates. He never called me after that.
And I got too busy to think about romance.
Even though Mom hasn’t had a health scare in almost a year now, I still haven’t considered getting flirty with anyone. Not until yesterday. Not until…him.
George Bunsen.
Go away, crush! You are not wanted!
“If you both can find your own then why are you still single?” Mrs. Cornfield sidles up to me and clasps me around the shoulders, unaware that my heart is fluttering for a man who is not her son. “Don’t you think Billy is handsome?”
Currently Billy is wearing a twisted scowl, transforming his normally good-looking features into a sour mask.
“Oh yes,” I agree readily. “A sight to behold. But like he said, Billy’s basically my brother.”
Sally scoffs. “You two are just close, that’s all. Sounds like the perfect start to a love affair to me.”
“Who’s my sister in a love affair with?”
We both turn to spy a grinning man leaning on the counter. He must have snuck in during our conversation. Normally my brother is not so easy to ignore.
Today he’s dressed in his businessman attire, wearing a designer suit, his red hair—the same shade as mine—perfectly styled, and a watch that’s probably worth a month of my paychecks hugging his wrist. Shawn Newton and I live very different lives.
But he’s always insisted our one shared parent means those lives need to overlap sometimes.
And what Shawn wants, Shawn gets.
For some reason, he’s always wanted a sister.
“Well”—Mrs. Cornfield smiles at my brother—“Billy’s got his eye on her. Wrote her the sweetest note—”
“Mom!” Billy growls. “So help me god, I will walk out of this kitchen and apply for a job at Beefies Steak House if you don’t quit it with the notes.”
Mrs. Cornfield’s mouth snaps shut, and she turns a set of horrified eyes toward the kitchen. “How dare you make such a terrible threat?”
As mother and son continue to bicker, I slip out from under her arm and lean my elbows on the counter across from Shawn.
“What brings you down from the big city today?”
My brother has a luxurious condo in DC—well, technically Arlington, Virginia, but it all seems like one city to me—that is walking distance to plenty of five-star restaurants.
Still, he tries to make it to Cornfield’s at least once a week.
It helps that we’re on the way to the private airfield his company flies him out of for business trips.
But I like to think he’d still come by even if I were out of the way.
Shawn reaches over the counter to clasp the top of my skull with his huge hand until I swat him away.
“You may have heard,” he says, his voice overly casual, “that there was this wild plane that landed in the middle of the highway yesterday.”
“Hmm, sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Yeah, well”—his eyes narrow as he scans me from head to toe—“I wanted to make sure you’re all in one piece.”
Of course, he’d come in here and immediately be the sweet big brother he is. There’s a tiny part of me that wishes he wouldn’t. Because every bit of love and care Shawn offers makes me feel worse.
Because I’m a terrible sister who lied to him.
I hated misleading Shawn. But I was desperate.
A few years ago, I got a bill in the mail from the hospital—the first of many—that revealed just how expensive it is to keep a person alive when their body starts to grow cancerous cells.
At first, I was able to cover the costs with my savings and by taking on extra hours at Cornfield’s. Then Mom married her long-term partner, Marge, and got on her insurance. That coverage kept us afloat. For a while, we were managing.
But Mom had complications. Surgeries. ER visits. Unexpected expenses that insurance didn’t cover. Then her mental health dipped along with her physical health. All the while, the house the three of us lived in needed a lot of repairs we hadn’t expected.
My savings disappeared. The credit cards maxed out. Marge and I tried to keep the financial situation to ourselves so Mom could focus on healing, but I knew we wouldn’t be able to hide it forever.
Terrified that an unpaid bill would mean my mom would be denied lifesaving treatments, I sought out Shawn and asked my beloved big brother for a loan.
He agreed before I’d finished half of my rehearsed speech.
He wrote me a blank check and hugged me.
I swore to him I’d work out a payment plan.
He told me I could pay him back when I turned twenty-five and got access to my trust fund, like he did.
The one our father set up for me with a few million dollars inside.
The same type of trust Shawn came into on his twenty-fifth birthday.
My trust that…doesn’t exist.
I don’t know if our father lied to Shawn and said there was a fund, or if my brother assumed the money existed simply because he couldn’t fathom that his dad might want nothing to do with a daughter born from the affair Karl Newton had with his assistant.
Either way, worried that Shawn might rescind his offer, I let my mouth ramble.
“Of course,” I’d played along. “I’ll pay you back with my trust fund. When I’m twenty-five. This is just a loan.”
My twenty-fifth birthday is now four months away.
Four months until my loving brother finds out I’m a liar who took his money with no clear idea for how to pay him back.
I should’ve worked harder these last few years. Saved up more. Had a large chunk of my debt ready to pay off to soften the blow of my deception. Then I would be closer to reimbursing what I owe Shawn and wouldn’t have to wait until half of my life is gone before I pursue a career in flying.
But things kept coming up. Mom’s appointments and unplanned hospital visits and bouts of depression.
The anxiety of never knowing what else might go wrong fogged my mind until I could barely write food orders or wear my tip-earning smile, much less fill out applications for other jobs.
The weight of that terrible time even managed to smother the joy of reading aviator memoirs.
When I think back on the last five years, all I can remember is helping Mom, working at Cornfield’s, and making sure our house was livable.
Anything other than that involved me vegging out in front of the TV so my mind could melt to mush and I wouldn’t have to think about my mother possibly dying or the lies I told my brother so I could keep her alive and comfortable.
I’m going to fix things, I silently swear. Flying is not the priority. Mom and Shawn are.
Mom, Shawn, and the house. Can’t forget that mortgage.
I’ll get a second job. I repeat the plan to myself. Apply to other places in town—hopefully somewhere other than Beefies Steak House—and work the days and evenings I’m off at the diner.
When Shawn learns the truth, it’ll take time for him to trust me again—if he ever does.
He’ll probably stop visiting me at work.
He won’t want to do our monthly book club.
He’ll choose to spend all of his holidays with his mom and dad instead of having fried chicken on Thanksgiving with me and Mom and Marge.
Maybe he’ll block my number, denouncing me as a money-mooching relative.
He’s done it before to former friends and ex-girlfriends.
Most recently he separated from his ex-fiancée, Tiffany.
People who only took from him.
People like me.
The thought of losing Shawn because of my betrayal makes my rib cage ache.
So for now, I bask in his concern and try not to count down the days to when it disappears.
Straightening, I give him a twirl. “Limbs attached and accounted for. You can thank your buddy George for keeping a cool head.”
“Hear that, George?” Shawn turns and glances toward the doorway. “Beth says I should thank you. So maybe it’s time to stop beating yourself up, huh?”
Turns out my brother isn’t the only new arrival I briefly overlooked.
My eyes collide with a gray stare, and I take a deep swallow as my body floods with my adrenaline crush.
George Bunsen is here. Looking at me.
My cheeks roar with heat, and I do my best to mentally punch my hormones into submission. But they fight back. There’s a burning sensation on the top of my thigh in the phantom shape of his hand from where he briefly rested it yesterday. My body is branded with his touch.
Unaware of my inner turmoil, George holds my gaze, his brow furrowed as he studies me, his jaw tense and his lips in a firm, unhappy line.
Well, one thing hasn’t changed.
George Bunsen still wishes I didn’t exist.