Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
VALENTINA
What the fuck is my stepbrother doing at my door? He should be heading to bed too, not wanting to chitchat. We got our chitchatting out in the car, or so I thought.
I quickly hop off the bed, shrug my pants back on, and crack the door just a few inches. I peer out to find Banon there, his muzzle lowered and his cute ears pinned back.
“What is it?” I ask through the small opening.
He tilts his head. “Are you… naked in there?”
“No! I just don’t know why you’re here at bedtime.”
“I wanted to, um, talk about what you said. Tonight.”
Great. Just what I wanted—to get raked over the coals again for saying something I thought was obvious to all of us. Banon’s never cared about academics, just football. He was open about it in high school.
“Ugh.” I widen the gap in the door. “Fine. Say what you have to say.”
“Can I come in, please?”
His ears are still down, and I think he’s nervous about whatever he wants to tell me. Sighing with annoyance, I take a step back so he can come in. Banon squeezes his big, towering body through the doorway and then, to my surprise, closes the door behind him.
Being alone in my bedroom with Banon with the door closed is something that hasn’t happened since I was fifteen and he gave me my first drink of alcohol.
Back when he was still living at home, he’d been partying with his college friends earlier and brought back a six-pack to share with me.
All it took was two bottles of Smirnoff Ice to do me in.
I vaguely remember how, after a few hours of being drunker than a skunk, Banon tucked me into bed and turned off the light before he left with the empty bottles.
Sitting down on my bed, I cross my arms, trying to appear irritated by his unannounced visit rather than elated.
If things were different, if our parents weren’t married to each other, this would be a much more exciting proposition.
As it is, I have to rein myself in and try to play it cool, just like I did my entire adolescent life.
“What’s up?” I finally ask when Banon remains standing there, not looking at me.
“Do you really think I phoned it in? In college?”
I resist rolling my eyes. He seems sincere, almost hurt. “Yeah, I do. You got Bs and Cs in school. All you ever seemed to care about was football and women. I don’t think we talked about academics once all four years you went to college.”
He frowns. “Just because I didn’t talk about it doesn’t mean I wasn’t doing the work.”
What does he want from me? An apology? An acknowledgment that he cared a little bit about school but not enough to ever bring it up?
“Okay, fine. You did the work, enough to get passing grades. Good job.”
Banon’s brows crease, and he lifts his head to look at me for the first time since he showed up at my door.
“Why do you hate me, Tina?”
The question hits me right in the face. Where’s this coming from?
“Who says I hate you?” I ask.
“It seems like you do. All the time. Like right now.” He nods at how I’m sitting on the bed. “Your face certainly looks like you ate something gross.”
I’m mystified. Of course I don’t hate him. I’ve never hated him. In fact, what I’ve felt since I was a pre-teen is anything but hate. Which has always irritated me more, given how he treats me.
“Hmm,” I say sarcastically, “I wonder what could have done that? Maybe when you let your friends make fun of me endlessly. Maybe it’s the fact you never once defended me.
You just stood there and let them. Remember Tiny Tina?
The nerdy girl who wasn’t worth the time of day?
” My voice is rising the longer I talk, and Banon’s blue eyes are getting wider.
“Can’t imagine why Tiny Tina would hate you, when you were instrumental to the worst four years of my life. ”
I enunciate the last part very clearly. These are all words I’ve said in my head but never out loud. If he’s going to ask me point-blank how I feel about him, I’ll give him a point-blank answer.
Banon doesn’t speak when I finish. No, he simply stares at me where he stands in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by posters of my favorite anime characters—the very ones his friends mocked me for drawing during class my freshman year in high school.
“Wow,” he says at last. “You’ve been holding that in all this time? I didn’t know you had so much resentment bottled up inside.”
“What do you expect? You treated me like dirt, Banon. When you kick a dog, eventually it’ll bite you.”
He’s still staring at me as if this is all new information, which gets under my skin.
Does he not have any idea what those four years were like for me?
When I got tits in ninth grade, he stood by while his own friends teased me for it.
I had no choice in when I got boobs, and never once did my older “brother” protect me.
“So it’s about more than just grades,” he says, more to himself than to me. “High school was years ago. I graduated before you became a sophomore. Why would you blame me for what happened there?”
Is he really this stupid? “You set the tone. You and your friends, you made me a pariah, and that never changed, Banon. When you went to college with a football scholarship, you were everyone’s idol. Your legacy lived on long past when you left.”
Unsteadily, he sits down at the very edge of the bed, a good three feet away from me. “I didn’t know, Tina. I mean, Val. I didn’t know that high school was so horrible for you.”
“Right. Of course not. It isn’t like you ever came home again once you moved out. You just up and forgot about me.”
First, Banon appears surprised. Then, his brows lower and he exhales a huff.
“I never forgot about you. That’s not true at all. Not in the least.”
We clearly have very different memories.
“Whatever,” I say with a resigned sigh. “I’m sorry I said that thing about your grades, okay? I am.” I get up from the bed and head to the door, opening it for him. Sending a clear message to leave.
Banon searches my face, his expression confused, then regretful.
I don’t know what he’s bummed about. All I did was tell him things he already knew.
With another huff, he gets to his feet again and comes to the door—but he doesn’t step through it.
No, he stops in front of me, peering down from his much greater height.
Then he lifts his hand like he’s about to do something with it but stops halfway.
“Sorry, Val. I didn’t know I’d hurt you so much.”
I shrug. “I’m over it. We’re siblings, we forgive each other and move on, et cetera. Right?”
Something I can’t discern flickers in his eyes.
“Sure. Guess so.” Taking a step back from me, he turns and strides through the door. The moment he’s out in the hall, I close it behind him.
Even after he’s gone, though, the air smells like his cologne.
The next morning, Banon is gone before I even wake up, though I thought he’d be the one taking me back to school. That’s what my parents believed, too, so Marissa is a bit grumpy that she has to leave early to detour and drop me off.
On the way, she seems a bit sour. I’m almost certain it has to do with what I said last night, and I don’t understand why everyone is so mad at me.
I’m the one who should be mad. Not that I’ve ever told Marissa about the stuff that happened at school.
It felt like it would be tattling on Banon, creating tension in his relationship with his mother if I was honest with her about the bullying.
Stupid of me. He never deserved that loyalty.
I don’t know why I afforded it to him when he’d never do the same for me.
The one time I had a boyfriend in high school—before the age of sixteen, which Dad had determined was the appropriate age for me to start dating—Banon ratted me out to our parents over dinner.
He mentioned “Tina’s boyfriend” casually and claimed later that he forgot it was supposed to be a secret.
It had always felt intentional to me.
I’m seething even more than before when I get back to school. Now Marissa is salty with me, when I was just saying what we all know.
The weekend drags by, then it’s back to classes.
That distracts me from this Banon bullshit, because it’s the week before Thanksgiving break and there are midterms to take.
I’m doing pretty okay this year, feeling on top of my studies and focused on the work.
I got most of my partying out of my system already, and now I’m intent on getting a good summer internship.
Soon though, it’s Friday again, which means heading back to my parents’ place. They got so insulted last year when I didn’t come home for all of the break that I decided I’d join them as soon as class got out, even though I’ll be missing a pretty awesome party.
The salt only accumulates as I pack up enough stuff for the whole week, my friends shouting and laughing out in the hallway. That could be me, but instead I’m going to end up having a quiet night in with my boring parents, probably watching a rom-com on Netflix.
Dad’s waiting at the curb when I finally leave my dorm, duffel bag and backpack on.
“Stop at the liquor store?” he asks as we drive. “Any preferences on dinner?”
“Whatever is fine with me. Maybe takeout?”
Dad orders a lot more food than we need, but I don’t ask questions because I’m always happy to eat it again the next day if it’s from the Himalayan place.
When we get back to the house, though, I’m surprised to see Banon’s car parked out front. Isn’t he going to be off partying somewhere, too? They had a football game today. Surely some cheerleader with a nice ass tempted him into going out.
Great. This is worse than just a night in with my folks. I don’t want to face him again after our confrontation last week.
My whole mood deflates as we head inside with the food and champagne. Marissa starts taking out the plates and cutlery, while Banon gets up from the table. He takes the bag from me without asking and starts opening the containers of food.
“Jeez,” I say under my breath. I can’t even dish up the takeout now?
“Just trying to help,” he answers.
Pretending I didn’t catch it, I head to the table with my plate full of food.
As expected, Banon talks about the football game, so I can quietly zone out while I eat.
Then, as I also expected, we watch a silly movie together.
I isolate myself by sitting in the La-Z-Boy, which Banon usually takes during family movie nights, forcing him to sit on the couch that’s a little too small.
We haven’t exchanged a word or a look. Sure, we’ve fought lots of times growing up, but it never lasts more than an hour or two before the dynamic goes back to normal. But this bad energy has persisted, and it makes me uncomfortable.
Finally, after the movie ends, the parents head to bed. I grab a book off the shelf and make to do the same thing, but suddenly, Banon’s behind me, one of his massive hands landing on my shoulder.
“Hey, Val.” He says it quietly, as if he doesn’t want our retreating parents to hear him. “Don’t go yet? Have a drink with me?”
I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Great. He wants to talk more. But I don’t want to talk anymore, not with how many ugly feelings that surface inside me when we dredge up the past.
I learned this lesson the other night. Being truly honest with people never leads anywhere good—but I have no real reason to turn him down. We should probably make up before Thanksgiving. I would hate for my whole week off to be polluted by bad stepbrother juju.
“Fine. But you’re making me a cocktail. One of Dad’s fancy ones.”
Banon heads toward the kitchen, sending me a salute. “You got it, toots.”