Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
She reaches the bottom of the stairs and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Your father’s an idiot, child,” she says. She pats my arm gently. “But his heart’s in the right place.”
I say nothing. Just wait.
“Apparently, your mom miscarried. And the only person she thought to call while at the hospital was him.”
Everything inside me stills.
“Miscarried?” I say.
She nods. “Yes. She’s really broken down about it. Made us promise not to tell any of you.”
Something cracks beneath my ribs, a messy knot of shock, guilt, and confusion. It hadn’t even crossed my mind how she’d been coping, alone and pregnant.
“Where is she?” I ask. “Has anyone called Jade?”
The softness in Grandma’s eyes vanishes. “It’s best if you don’t mention that name when you go upstairs to see her. Hopefully, you can convince your father to let you take her someplace else before Daphne gets home next week and this turns into a circus. God knows their marriage is already standing on shaky legs.”
~~
SERENA
Being alone means learning how to party on your own.
And not just the kind of party where you’re scrolling through your phone in bed with your legs tangled in a blanket and crumbs from a chocolate ba stuck to your collarbone. No. This is a full-blown, stand-on-the-coffee-table, blast the record player party, Sober. Alone.
I’m wearing a sweatshirt with a wine stain I keep lying to myself I’ll bleach out one day. No pants. Just pink cotton undies with little of mismatched socks. There’s a container of leftover rice balanced precariously in one hand, the remote control in the other wireless mic on stage at a stadium packed full of screaming fans.
The lights are dim except for the floor lamp in the corner, casting an amber glow across the wooden floorboards. My shadow jumps with me as I bounce from one foot to another, belting out the chorus of a track I haven’t listened to since college but somehow still know every word. My hips swivel in sync with the beat, and I throw in a dramatic hair flip that nearly knocks my bowl of rice to the floor.
I forgot to get alcohol. Again. Which means I am stone-cold sober and doing all of this without the excuse of liquid courage.
Sober. Alone. And losing it.
It’s glorious.
Then the doorbell rings.
I freeze mid-hair-flip, rice spoon halfway to my mouth.
Who the hell rings a doorbell at this hour?
I shuffle to the door, drop the rice on the side table, and peek through the peephole. And when I see who’s standing outside, the words tumble out of me like a reflex.
“Son of a bitch.”
Finn.
I press my forehead against the door. Just for a second. Just to gather the emotional strength not to scream.
I can’t believe this shit.
I unlock the door, yank it open, and there he is. Slouched posture, one arm in a sling, the other shoved in his hoodie pocket. His hair is messy, and there’s a line of stubble on his jaw that’s never been there anytime before now. He looks tired.
“Hi, Serena,” he says.
I don’t reply right away. I’m still trying to figure out whether I want to slam the door or throw the rice at his face.
“What the hell do you want? Sloane doesn’t live here anymore.”
“I know,” he says. “I actually came to see you. Can I come inside?”
There’s a stretch of silence. Long enough for me to weigh the pros and cons. Pro: could be entertaining. Finn, even with his tendency for dramatics, has always been a fun person. Con: definitely ends in an emotional migraine. I take a breath, step aside, and wave him in.
He walks past me and heads straight for the record player. He then turns the knob and silences my concert.
“Seriously?” I say, arms dropping to my sides.
“Seemed a bit loud, don’t you think?”
“That’s because it’s my house, and I want it loud.”
“Are you, like, permanently here? Or is this some sort of temporary arrangement?”
I narrow my eyes, snatch my rice back from the table, and flop onto the couch, legs curled under me.
“What do you want, Finn?”
He stays by the record player like a statue.
“You do one of those manipulation things they do in movies as a therapist?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“You know. Can you get into my head and change things? Make me forget certain things?
“If you’re talking about hypnotherapy, that’s not how it works.”
He starts walking toward me.
“I don’t care what it’s called, Serena, or what it means. I just want
I set the rice aside. I suddenly don’t feel like eating anymore. to forget.” ving clock and witchcraft thing movies do.”
“Forget what?” I ask, though I suspect I already know.
“Your sister. I want to forget that she was ever in my life. I want to stop thinking about her, wondering where she is or what she’s doing with my brother. Knox thinks I only want the women he wants. I gotta show him I can want other people. That I can get my own women. I’ve told Delilah to stay away from me. I need Sloane to be out of my life completely. That’s why I’m here. Make me forget.”
He’s not joking. His expression is raw, desperate. There’s a subtle tremor in his voice, the kind that slips out when you’ve run out of armor to hide behind. And for a second, just a second, I feel a pang of pity.
“Umm,” I say, “I have closed for the week. And like I said, that’s not how that works.”
“What’s it going to take? Money? A kidney? Tell me.”
“Honestly?” I deadpan. “I think it would take dementia.”
Finn glares daggers at me, and then he pivots and walks straight toward the bedroom.
“What the hell, Finn?” I say, bolting up and following him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
By the time I catch up, he’s already in the room. He’s prying open the closet with his good hand and pulling stuff out.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting her stuff. I bet she left some here before going to play house with my brother. Maybe if I set something of hers on fire, it would free me from this curse.”
I storm in after him. “Get your hands off my things, Finn.”
He pulls out the small white box I stupidly left in the same drawer Sloane found it. The pregnancy test kit.
He glances down at it. “You pregnant or something?”
My spine straightens like a wire. “None of your business.”
I shove him back, but he’s already yanked a shirt off a hanger, one I know belongs to Sloane, and turns to walk back into the living room.
“Could you please just leave?” I say. “You’ve gotten her shirt. Go do some voodoo or whatever. Just leave.”
The words come out in a quiet sigh. I’m not even mad anymore. I’m just tired. I follow him into the living room, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall.
“Not until you help me forget her,” he says.
“Have you tried dating other people?”
“Dating is not the issue here,” he says. “I have a lot of sex. I just don’t want to have to make them wear a wig and glasses so I can pretend I’m screwing your sister.”
I pause. “I beg your pardon?”