He removes the coffee-cup lid and blows across the surface, recalling one event in particular when Thomas had saved his hide. James had swung by the art store after school one afternoon to buy new brushes and pigment tubes. But in his haste to get home and change clothes to meet Nick and their buddies for a pickup football game in the park, he’d left his backpack with the supplies on the couch in the great room. He arrived home a couple of hours later, sweaty, grass-stained, and muddy, to find Phil in the dining room skimming through his geometry notes. The textbook, cracked to the latest chapter James had studied, lay open at Phil’s elbow. Phil had left the wide-open backpack on the chair beside him.
“What’re you doing with my stuff?” James’s gaze jumped from Phil to the backpack and back. He didn’t want to make it obvious he was looking for the art supplies, but where were they? The shopping bag was gone. He heard his mother on the phone in the other room. Did she take the bag?
James glared at Phil, who glanced up casually from the notebook.
“Mom said you failed your last test. I thought I could help you study.”
James narrowed his eyes. Math was his best subject. He might have missed two questions, and so what if Mom thought that was failing an exam. He didn’t need Phil’s help studying. And he sure didn’t want Phil going through his stuff without asking.
James flipped the textbook closed, dropped it in his pack, and tugged the notebook from under Phil’s forearm. It didn’t budge. He tugged again and Phil slowly grinned, leaning back in the chair. He hooked an elbow on the chair back and nodded his chin at James. “Watchya been up to?”
“Football with the guys.” He tucked the notebook away.
“That’s all?”
James zipped up and shouldered the backpack. “That’s all,” he replied, leaving the dining room.
“I was only trying to help,” Phil called after him.
James flipped him the bird over his shoulder. Then he swept through the great room looking for the shopping bag, first under the couch, then behind the table. His gaze skimmed the kitchen counters before he went to his room. He underhanded the pack onto the bed and stood there, rubbing his forearms. Had he left the bag at the store? No, he distinctly recalled stuffing it into his backpack before he hauled his ass home.
Too stressed to realize he was caked in filth, he sat at his desk and tried to study. He rolled the pencil between flat palms. He bounced the tip on the opened textbook. He shoved fingers into his crusty hair and squeezed. Complementary and obtuse angles blurred on the pages as his heart beat in his throat. His throat was dry and he wished he had a glass of water, but didn’t want to get one in case he ran into his mother. The longer he sat there, staring at his homework, the more he believed his mother had searched his backpack and found them. It was only a matter of time before she’d realize he was home. She’d ground him for months.
A light tap rapped on the door. James twisted in his chair and stared wide-eyed at the door. It cracked open. The shopping bag appeared, swinging from a hooked finger. Seconds later, Thomas’s wide shoulders filled the door frame. His brother shut the door behind him and tossed the bag at James. He caught it midflight.
“Where’d you find it?”
“On the floor in the dining room.” Thomas launched himself on the bed, landing on his back, hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankle. “I bet it fell out when Phil snooped through your books. What an ass.”
“Thanks for covering mine.” James shoved the shopping bag into the desk’s bottom drawer, under a pile of old school notebooks. “He would’ve been a jerk about it.”
“It’s not his fault he is the way he is.” His brother grabbed the baseball tucked inside James’s glove abandoned on the floor by the bed. He shot the ball straight up, catching it before it landed on his nose.
“So it’s my fault he went digging through my stuff?”
“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you, but listen.” Thomas tossed the ball again, then curled up, sitting on the bed edge and catching the ball in one move. Resting his forearms on his knees, he lightly juggled the ball side to side. “Mom dragged us along to the Valley Fair Mall a couple of days ago. We ran into Dad’s secretary.”
“Mrs. Lorenzi?” She was as cavalier as their mother and should have retired a decade ago.
“You know how Mom and Dad and Uncle Grant won’t acknowledge Phil in public as Mom’s son?”
“Yeah, so? What happened?”
Thomas shrugged. “You know Mom. She can’t help talking about how great he is. ‘My nephew this. My nephew that.’” Thomas mimicked the tone and cadence of their mother’s voice. Then he scratched his head, ball in hand. “You’d think Phil would be cocky as shit with the compliments. He looked ill, and a little sad. I felt sorry for the guy.”
James frowned. “What does that have to do with his being an ass?”
Thomas shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. I got this feeling our parents and Uncle Grant are creating their own hell storm. One of these days Phil’s going to get sick of us calling him cousin.” His brother underhanded the ball and James caught it, putting it aside. Thomas stood and went to the door. “Does Aimee know about Phil?” His tone was curious.
James screwed his lips and shook his head. He was too embarrassed to tell her the truth. It disgusted him that his mother had sex with her brother. That would be like sleeping with Thomas if he were a girl. How gross was that? He still remembered the ridicule his family endured right before they left New York.
“Yeah, I think we’ve both done a good job sweeping that scandal under the rug. I haven’t told anyone either.” Thomas turned the handle and paused before opening the door. “Word of advice?”
James had turned back to his desk and homework. He cocked his head toward Thomas. “What?”
“Do the same about your art. You’ve slipped a couple of times lately.”
James agreed. He’d gotten careless. He looked at the drawer where he hid the shopping bag. “If you didn’t have to work for Mom and Dad’s company after college, what would you want to do?”
Thomas was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“If you did think about it?”
“Brian Holstrom’s dad works for the FBI. He’s told us some really cool stories.” He shrugged, then held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Dinner in five.” His brother shut the door, leaving James with exactly four minutes to clean up and one minute to get his rear to the table. He sprinted into the bathroom, thoughts of Phil rinsing away with the dirt and grime.
The loudspeaker crackles overhead, reminding James of where they are and why. Boarding would begin shortly for their flight. He nudges Julian’s shin with the toe of his sneaker. “That was nice of you,” he says, referring to the doughnut half Julian sacrificed. “You’re a good brother.”