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“Yeah,” I say, staring at my older brother’s face, hating that I can’t introduce him to Keaton today.
As if she can tell how I’m feeling, she slides her arm around my waist and leans her head against my shoulder.
“You’d have liked him,” I say.
“I’m sure I would have.” Her response is quiet, almost respectful in a way.
“What about you? Do you and Eli look alike?” I ask, trying to veer the conversation away from thoughts of my dead brother.
“In some ways, yeah. We both have dark hair like our mom, and brown eyes, though his are way lighter than mine. I think he looks more like our dad, while I take after Ma,” she says, smiling to herself as she glides her fingers over a model of a 1957 Chevy Bel Air I built when I was twelve.
“That’s understandable, I guess,” I say.
“Who’s this?” she asks, pointing to another picture.
“That’s my Uncle Rob, my dad’s brother,” I say.
“I guess the Kane gene is a strong one,” she says, and she isn’t wrong.
“That it is. Even my cousin Madelyn, Rob’s daughter, and I look a lot alike,” I say, remembering when we were all younger and strangers would mistake the three of us as siblings.
“I could definitely see that,” she says, and turns to me. “Are the two of you close?”
“Yeah, we were really close growing up, but I haven’t really made the effort in the last couple of years to stay close to anyone,” I say, and I know it makes me sound like an ass.
“You were grieving. We all do it in our own way. Don’t beat yourself up over it, I’m sure they understand,” she says, one corner of her lips lifting into a smile.
Reaching up, I brush her hair back away from her face, grazing my knuckles over her cheek. The urge to tell her how much she means to me is on the tip of my tongue…
“Dinner,” my mother’s voice echoes from up the stairs, and I lean my forehead against Keaton’s, sighing contently.
“I guess we better get down there,” I say, and grab her hand, leading her back downstairs.
We don’t even make it into the dining room before I can already hear my dad’s raised voice. Instantly on alert, I stand a little straighter, giving Keaton’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“I don’t care who is here, Lydia. I’ve told you before, do not yell in this house like some uncivilized person,” he says, scolding my mother like she was a child and not his partner. His equal. Though, Thompson Kane has no equal.
I roll my eyes, rounding the corner, wishing this was one dinner my dad would decide not to show up for.
“Bodhi, Keaton, there you are,” my mom says, painting on her smile, as if we didn’t just hear everything said. “You two can just sit anywhere—”
“What is she doing here?” My dad’s voice cuts through the room.
“Thompson,” my mom says, obviously embarrassed over his behavior, but he raises a hand to silence her, and I hate that she complies.
“What is she doing in my house?” My dad asks again, leveling his stare at me, ignoring the fact that Keaton is standing right beside me.
“Dad, this is Keaton—”
“Did I ask who she was?” he says, interrupting me, and effectively pissing me off, but I stand there, silent, refusing to answer.
“I asked what she is doing here. Do not make me repeat myself,” he says, narrowing his eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“She’s my girlfriend and mom invited us for dinner,” I say, voice taut. I curl my fist at my side, knowing that blowing up right now will only cause troubles for my mom.
“Your girlfriend?” he asks, a bit incredulously.
“Yes.”
