Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (6 page)

“I think you should leave now,” I say quietly and wiggle away from him.

“Alright,” he says and finally steps away, his pants conspicuously protruding at the front. It doesn’t seem to be making him uncomfortable. He smiles again. “But, I’ll be waiting for my invitation.”

He grabs his packaged book and leaves without turning back.

I jump to the floor and straighten my dress. That’s when I notice the square piece of paper with his number on it.

There’s no name. I already know I’m never going to call, so I scrunch it up into a ball and throw it into the trash can.

It’s time to go back to who I really am.

CHAPTER SIX

My mother dresses for dinner. I mean, for every dinner.

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’ve shown up like a good daughter to meet my newest brother.

Our roles are reversed and this time I lie sprawled on her bed while my mom is taking her time in front of the mirror. Watching her get ready is like witnessing something sacred, a ritual. She’s got her routine down to the tiniest elements. Right now, she’s bent over the vanity table, using the torture tool that is the eyelash curler to give her already dramatic eyelashes an even greater curve. At the same time, she’s stuck the mascara tube between her legs to warm it up so it doesn’t clump.

I can’t watch. I feel like she’ll accidentally squeeze her lid and bleed to death, so I focus on her hair. It falls down past her shoulders in sleek, natural-looking waves and it has an impossible shine to it. It’s a bit darker than mine, more reddish than orange, and I’ve always wondered whether she secretly dyes it, but of course you can’t ask my mom about these things. She has always insisted that her beauty is completely natural. Genetic.

Yeah, right. If it was genetic, what kind of ugly monster was my father that I didn’t inherit any of her perfection? I don’t know him. I doubt she even knows him. Either way, he is part of a past she rarely talks about. We were poor then and she even had to work. I try to picture her as a waitress or a dry cleaning worker, but it just doesn’t fit her image.

Anyway, I know she is not all natural, but I prefer not to tease her. She can get seriously worked up over this. No, her face is smooth and her lips are full, her hips are trim and her breasts don’t sag at forty-six because of genes. I leave it at that.

“So, mom?”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters with her mouth closed. If she moves, I’ll have a mother with no eye lids.

“What’s that big falling out Joe and Andrew had? When was it?”

She doesn’t respond immediately, but I know she’s going to, so I wait. When she is done with her lashes, she turns around.

“I don’t know this for a fact,” she says, “but I think just before your father and I got together, he sent Andrew away and cut him out of his will.”

“Wow, that’s intense. And by the way, isn’t that convenient,” I smirk, “For you, I mean.”

“Jo!” my mom is outraged, “Don’t be so cynical. You know I love your father. Plus, I didn’t know anything about Andrew at the time.”

My father. If I hear this one more time, I feel like I’m going to snap.

“What’s there to know?”

“I don’t want you to form opinions before you’ve met him, honey,” mom says, “I told you, he’s changed. And he is part of the family, so we need to get used to him being back.”

“You mean, you have to get used to it. I don’t plan on sticking around too much. I have my own life now.”

“Why do you keep insisting that working at a bookstore is a life? Everyone needs family, honey.”

She can’t be more wrong. The book shop
is
my life. I’ve started out with nothing. Well, sure there was the generous down payment that Joe insisted on donating and the very favorable loan terms he negotiated for me with the bank, but other than that, it’s been all a work of my love.

I remember first walking into that empty space on Chestnut Street, running my hands over the peeling paint on the walls, examining the busted light fixtures, checking out the various leaks and cracks. And still, I managed to turn it into what it is today. I’ve hand-picked every single title that lines my shelves. I’ve browsed catalogs for furniture and decor items. I’ve picked out colors and emptied my apartment’s kitchen to bring some necessary items over to the back room. It’s my baby, my book shop, and I love every tiny speck of dust in it.

Of course, I don’t expect my mom to understand. I doubt she’s ever seen anything come to life through the work of her two bare hands.

“So, what did he do that was so bad?” I say to get away from my favorite topic. Family.

“I’m not sure. Many things. Drugs, gambling, drinking. You get the picture. He was also constantly involved with the wrong woman. Older ladies, married women, nannies. He was always all over the papers.”

“It doesn’t sound worse than most men,” I say and I realize I’ve stepped into cynical territory once again.

“Jo! If you had even the smallest experience with men, I’d let that slip. You can’t talk like that. There are wonderful men out there, if you’d only for once get yourself a date.”

“So, Joe catches Andrew with wealthy widow next door and disinherits him?”

“Of course not,” my mom says and I feel she is getting tired of me, “I don’t think it was just one thing. To Joe, his company, his reputation mean everything. He realizes that an end to an empire comes with him and having no one trustworthy to take over the reigns just breaks his heart.”

“But you said Andrew’s changed.”

“I hope so,” she says distractedly, “I’ve had my fair share of men claiming to have changed. It’s not impossible, but… I guess we owe it to your father to give Andrew a chance.”

“Is he?”

“What?”

“Giving him a chance?”

“He doesn’t talk about it. Anyway, I think Andrew should be here by now. Let’s get downstairs and see.”

Sometimes I feel like Joe has glass eyes. He never blinks and he never changes expression. He looks like a reptile in the face and I can’t picture my hot-blooded mother ever going to bed with him. Not that I spend a lot of time picturing my mom going to bed with people…

It’s still light outside when we sit down at the enormous dining table. Rich people seem to always dine early and then stretch the process well into the evening. Dinner is an event, an everyday one. Joe is dressed up too in a crisp white shirt and a dark olive dinner jacket. His snow-white hair is combed to the side. He still hasn’t lost a hair of it.

I can never get over the luxury of their home. I feel like a country mouse that has stumbled into the big city. Looking at all the polished hardwood floors, the vintage dining chairs, the high ceiling and the trio of maids hurrying in and out through the tall door, I’m glad I decided not to live with them here. It’s like a tomb of times long gone and everything is so large-scale and extravagant that it doesn’t feel like a home at all. It feels like a museum.

I sit down and place the cloth napkin across my lap. Vintage furniture and vintage manners are still in in this home. Joe sits at the head of the table, as always, and mom is opposite him. It feels like they need to shout to hear each other across the ridiculously long table. The seat in front of me is still empty.

I’ve made an effort too. I’ve washed and brushed my hair and put some concealer under my eyes, though the dark circle situation has improved a lot since Sunday morning. I’ve also put on the only pair of khaki pants that I own and borrowed one of mom’s twin sets. She tried to force pearls on me, but I fought it off. I can go as far as changing my top for a dinner ‘at home’, but changing my entire personality is out of the question.

“I guess we should get started,” Joe says quietly from behind his clasped hands.

“No, honey,” my mom says soothingly, “We can wait a bit more. We are not very hungry, are we Jo?”

“No,” I say, snapping out of my little daydream, “No, not hungry yet.”

“How’s the bookstore going, Jo?” Joe asks me. How could I ever think of this guy as ‘dad’? He is more formal than my boarding school principal, and that’s during his downtime.

“Great,” I lie. It’s great, yes, but not financially and I know that’s the thing that interests him. “I’ve started doing these poetry reading nights on Thursdays. Still not a lot of interest, but I’m throwing a little campaign next week to get the word out, so hopefully more people will come.”

If I’m boring him to death, he doesn’t let it show.

I’m just about to go into more detail about the other events I’ve planned for the bookstore next week, like the book club, a book signing, a crafts books sale and workshop, when the door opens and we all turn to look.

I gasp.

One of the maids is escorting Andrew into the room. My new brother. Also, the man I had careless, irresponsible, unprotected sex with.

Last time I tried to attribute his appearance to me dreaming didn’t prove effective. Regardless, I try it one more time. I must be dreaming. In what twisted world have I picked to have a blow job shot out of the crotch of the only man in town I’m semi-related to? Well, besides Joe, but then the world would have been even more twisted.

If I was in a Victorian novel right now, which I wish I was, I would have conveniently fainted, but I’m not, so I have to live through the next few hours. My heart is in my throat and I fear that everyone must be looking at me right now and reading the shame written all over my face.

In truth, no one is looking at me. Both my mom and Joe are staring at Andrew who is still standing at the door where the maid left him. Joe still has his lizard expression on and if he’s happy to see his son after so many years, he doesn’t show a glimpse of emotion. My mom, on the other hand, is beaming. If Andrew has noticed and recognized me already, he doesn’t betray himself.

“Andrew,” my mother squeals with exaggerated friendliness, “It’s so great to finally meet you! Joe’s been telling me all about you!”

She gets up from her seat and Andrew seems relieved she’s offering him an escape from the awkward situation. He grabs the opportunity and walks over to her side of the table.

“I hope you haven’t listened to
all
he had to say,” he says and accepts the hug my mom offers. “You look fantastic, Olivia. Better in person than in the papers. My dad is a lucky man.”

Creepy
, I think,
on many levels
. Has he been stalking the family through the media? Is he finding my mom
sexually
attractive? I suppose my brain goes to creepland so it doesn’t have to deal with my own shitty circumstances.

Andrew looks even better than when he showed up unexpectedly at the book shop. He is wearing navy blue slacks and a matching cashmere sweater. The collar of the white shirt peeking from his V-neckline is perfectly ironed and his hair is tamed with just the right amount of wax. He looks like he’s stepped out of an expensive watch or perfume ad.

It’s Joe’s turn to stand and greet his son, though the interaction is much more reserved than what just happened with my mom. They barely hug and there’s space for at least one other person to sneak in between their bodies. Joe doesn’t smile and I’m not surprised, for the man doesn’t seem to know how to do it.

As they exchange their muttered greetings, I feel my palms starting to sweat. I know it’s my turn now and I wish I was three and could just hide under the table without anyone questioning my behavior. The two men part and I drop my eyes to the floor, feeling the rush of blood in my cheeks burn. I should have put on foundation, like seven layers of it. My almost transparent skin shows everything I’m not saying.

“And this is Jo,” my mom jumps in, “Your sister. I’m so glad Jo finally gets to meet her brother!”

Brother, sister. She’s throwing the words like punches that end up straight in my gut.

Andrew circles the table and is now towering over me. I can smell him. They say smells can bring back memories. Unfortunately it’s true and he’s wearing the same cologne he had on that night. A scene flashes before my eyes. My cheek is pressed against the cold tiles of a bathroom stall. Dim red lights. My face is contorted as I scream into his palm, the pressure of his thrusts pushing me into the wall.

“Great to meet you, Jo,” Andrew says and I see myself stretching out a hand for a handshake.

He is so good! What an actor. Not a single fiber betrays him. His face is all brotherly love and excitement. Even his eyes glint with watery sparkles and if I hadn’t had him inside me mere days ago, I admit, I would have been fooled, too. Mom and Joe certainly are. I can see my mother’s eyes tearing up and her hands clasped underneath her chin, as if she is watching the end of a romantic comedy.

Andrew ignores my hand and dives straight in for a proper hug. I stop breathing, so I don’t inhale any more of that poisonous cologne and only barely allow my fingers to touch his ripped back underneath the cashmere.

“Now that’s a twist, Cinderella,” he whispers in my ear and an involuntary shiver creeps through my body. I’m completely mute. I can’t think of a single thing to say and I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll ruin his great job at covering up the fact that we know each other.