Step Brother Bear

Chapter 1

If I press my head against the window hard enough, perhaps I’ll break through and fly into the dense woods around me.

Sure, I’ll likely die, but at least my ears will gain a reprieve from their torture.

It’s a morbid thought to have while driving home with my mother, who I haven’t seen in a year, but sometimes mothers can have that sort of effect.

At least I hope I’m not alone with my sentiments.

I can’t be the only daughter coupled with a mom so opposite from herself.

“Isabella, remind me to call Carol to make an appointment when we get home.” She leans over and brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder. “You’re looking frizzy.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” I reply, increasing the pressure on my skull.

In the two hours and fifteen minutes since leaving my previous life in New York City to move back to my hometown of Deep River, Connecticut, my mother has decided I need a facial, a nail appointment, a trip to the mall, a spray tan, a dietitian, and now a hair appointment.

It’s almost as if she wants an entirely brand-new daughter.

It’s exactly what she wants, of course, because all of the blogs and parenting videos she created throughout my lifetime included a version of myself so very different from the actual me.

She said it’s what paid the bills, but I knew the truth.

She wished for someone different, more confident, more assertive, and most of all, thinner.

As it turns out, attempting to force your preferences on someone doesn’t change who they are, just like with Lewis.

For five years, I believed he could be the man I needed with just a little pressure, love, and time.

It wasn’t big stuff. He already had a successful career, a good family, and incredible good looks, but he always forgot special events, came home late, didn’t prioritize our time together—normal boyfriend stuff, or so I thought.

As it turns out, he didn’t really like me that much.

Not enough to make it past our fifth anniversary.

The breakup would have stung less if I hadn’t just gotten fired from my dream job—a marketing position at Cloborks and Pines, the top advertising agency in the country.

My so-called “friends” in New York proved as fleeting as a viral meme.

With not enough saved for a deposit, and no job to put as a reference, I had nowhere to go.

My mother was the last person I thought I’d call in a time of crisis.

All the confidence and pride I managed to muster in my short twenty-three years of life evaporated the moment I picked up the phone and asked to move back home for a little while.

Of course, she was thrilled, or at least it seemed that way, but once I was back in her presence, she remembered just how much of a disappointment I am to her, now without the fancy job or boyfriend to brag about on social media.

She keeps glancing at me, squinting under her thin wire-frame glasses.

I can’t tell if she’s trying to figure out what else I can do to improve or if she’s trying to gauge where she went wrong. Probably a bit of both.

I never thought I’d be happy to see the city line of Deep River come into view, but my shoulders roll back a bit once we drive past the welcome sign. Only fifteen more minutes and I’ll be out of this car and can at least close myself behind my bedroom door and cry in peace.

When we pull up the long manicured brush-lined driveway to my two-story childhood home, I clutch the door handle, ready to jump out.

Looking at the white, pristine monstrosity brings back a whole slew of emotions.

Most of my childhood was spent in this home, and although from the outside it appeared to be a family living the American dream, the truth behind the doors was anything but.

Perhaps for my mom and stepfather, but not for me.

It used to be just my mom and me. Times were simpler, maybe not perfect, but she noticed me in a way that didn’t feel like scrutiny.

She was still an influencer, but it was more for fun.

When I was eleven, and she met my stepdad, that’s when everything changed.

No more clipping coupons and living in shitty one-bedroom apartments, but a lot more lonely dinners and holidays in our McMansion, even with the added family.

“Isabella, wait!” My mom calls right before I shut the passenger door behind me. I pause, remembering I’m not a little kid. I can’t just run inside, away from my problems. I stop, taking steps back to her.

“Don’t go in there empty-handed. We need to take your stuff inside.” She’s right, but I wish I had time to ground myself some.

I follow her to the trunk, removing my suitcase and a box full of photos.

Before I packed my belongings, I thought I had so much.

Our apartment in New York was beautiful, but as it turned out, nothing was really mine.

Lewis paid for everything. It added another layer of depression when I was able to stuff my entire life from the last five years into the back of my mom’s SUV.

When she questioned me, I told her I had gotten rid of some things, too embarrassed to reveal the truth.

She grabs another box and leads the way inside.

“Wow, you renovated,” I say without enthusiasm as I walk through the front door and into the foyer, the open floor plan kitchen and living room coming into view.

“Oh, you know us. We update things every year. I can’t even remember what it looked like the last time you were here,” she says without turning back, leading me up the staircase.

Everything is so different but also familiar.

It stings in an unusual kind of way. We reach my old bedroom near the end of the hall, right after the shared upstairs bathroom.

I place my belongings down on my bed. “Wow, it actually looks the same.” I take in my purple floral bedspread, and the Polaroids of my friends and me at senior prom adhered to the wall—a flurry of happy memories surfacing amid the despair.

I thought my parents would turn my bedroom into a gym or something by now, but I guess they already have a home gym, an office, a guest room, and a massive storage closet.

Mom smiles and places her box next to mine.

“We always hoped you’d come back home to visit.

” I’d believe her if the words didn’t sound so forced.

She’s telling the truth, though, just not in a lovey-dovey kind of way.

She begged me to come home for every holiday.

Not because she missed me, but because photoshopping me into family photos for social media wasn’t the easiest thing in the world.

I smile back instead of bringing this up, because I’ve learned how to live with my mom. It’s not fun, but it’s going to be something I must put up with until I find a job, an apartment and get the hell out of here. I sit on my bed, the weight of everything depleting the last of my energy.

My mother sighs, sizing me up with her hands on her hip. I wait for another helpful correction. “You look tired. Why don’t you get some rest, and we’ll work on unloading your stuff tomorrow?”

I nod, the soft sentiment almost making me emotional and shit. She kisses the top of my forehead before exiting my room, leaving me in silence.

I soak it in, not wanting to deal with my thoughts and uncharted future, but thankful for the peace. But not even a minute later, music blares from the other side of my wall.

I pop to my feet, racing toward my bedroom door. My heart beats wildly as I pound on the neighboring door. There’s no way. It’s probably my stepdad going through his stuff, or perhaps I just heard music from down the street.

Heavy footsteps sound on the other side until the door is yanked open.

I gape in pure horror, taking in his tight-fitting black tank top, his low-hanging sweatpants, his brown hair slicked back against his scalp.

He’s nothing like how I remember him, but also annoyingly similar.

A ridiculous amount of tattoos run up the sides of his forearms and biceps—well, at least one of them.

I can’t make out the other arm since it’s covered in bandages and a sling.

It’s been five years. Of course, he’s grown up, complete with a tight, shaven beard.

Perhaps my stepbrother has matured in all ways, not just physically.

Maybe he’s not the piece of shit that tormented me whenever he was home from boarding school for the holidays.

His pupils dilate as he sizes me up. I haven’t said anything, but neither has he. When he reaches my eyes, he smiles, and that’s when I know I’m doomed.

“Well, hello, fuckface,” Derek says, nothing but pearly white teeth I want to smash into his skull.