Three
Winter
“What—” I try to ask what he’s doing here, but it comes out as a sputtered mess.
“Winter, what happened?” My mother rushes over. Her hands come up and gently cup my shoulders as she gazes at me in concern.
“Uhm,” I start but must stop for a second to get my thoughts together. “I didn’t know he was going to be here.” It’s a lame response to what just happened, but I can’t be held responsible for this mess. I haven’t set my sights on Saint in years—just the way I like it.
Saint has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
Our mothers were best friends, and they both went through pregnancy and birth within a few months of each other.
We shared many milestones, including taking our first steps in the same month.
But somewhere along the way, we went from the friends our parents dreamed we’d be to enemies.
We mutually tormented each other for years until I left for college.
After that, we only saw each other a few times a year, but we haven’t seen each other since I moved to NYC.
Yes, life was so much better without being in his presence.
“I invited Saint to stay with us for a while, practically had to twist his arm into it. He’ll be staying through the holidays,” she tells me.
I want to shake the woman and scream “why?” at the top of my lungs.
She knows we can’t stand each other. But if I set my anger aside, I do understand her reasons.
His mother, who was his only family member, died about eight months ago.
I planned to come back home for the funeral, but a severe snowstorm in New York grounded all the planes.
As much as I loathe him, I felt guilty for not being here for the funeral because I loved his mother.
She was a kind and caring woman. Growing up, she was a second mother to me, not that I would consider Saint a brother. The furthest thing from it, actually.
Saint, who has finished gathering the pieces of the mug and wiping the liquid from the floor, stands up and leaves the room to dispose of the debris, mumbling, “Told you she wouldn’t want me to be here.”
I can’t imagine he really wants to be here either. Maybe only to escape the loneliness of the upcoming holiday season, but I’m sure he’d prefer to avoid me as well.
Cypress, who must have been the intended recipient of that comment, snickers from his spot at the table. I shoot a piercing glare at him, and he covers his mouth, trying to smother the sound. It doesn’t help. “This is going to be awesome.”
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to reach over and strangle my brother as much as I want to right now.
I’m ushered to the table and take my seat without protest. Saint returns, unfortunately taking the seat directly across from mine. I turn away, but I’m certain he’s staring at me; it feels as if his eyes are a brand on my skin.
Everyone resumes filling up their plates and begins eating.
They talk about Cypress’s business courses he’s been taking at the nearby university and some marketing plans he wants to implement for the next holiday season at the farm.
I’m sure whatever he wants to do will be helpful, but I can’t concentrate on anything being said.
I’m too busy staring daggers at the man across the table.
At some point, Dougie, who’s seated next to me, elbows me in the side. He whispers, “Why do you guys hate each other so much anyway?”