LOVE BEYOND

Saturday mornings in our house were sacred. Not sacred in the “hallelujah and choir robes” way, but in the messy, pajama clad, cereal box left on the counter way. They were the only time the week slowed down, the only time I didn’t feel like I had to prove anything to anyone. For me, that usually meant curling up on the old tan couch in the living room with a book I’d already read three times, a blanket wrapped around me like some kind of anti-social armor, and a bowl of ice cream that was about ninety percent fudge and ten percent vanilla. At eighteen, other people my age were probably cruising around in beat up cars, sneaking into late night bonfires, or making out behind football bleachers. Me? I was trying not to drip chocolate sauce on chapter twelve. Priorities. Across the room, my twelve year old brother Danny had once again claimed the dining table as his personal art studio. Which was really just code for “creative battlefield.” Sketchbooks, water cups, broken crayons, and at least four different brands of markers were spread across the wooden surface like debris after a storm. Danny himself sat cross legged in a chair, leaning so close to his paper that I was pretty sure his nose was smudged with graphite. He hummed tunelessly as he dragged a brush through a sloppy streak of blue. “Vicky,” he said, not looking up, “your book is upside down.” I lowered the blanket just enough to peer at him over the top of my paperback. “It’s called re-reading, genius. I already know the story by heart.” “Uh-huh.” His brush flicked dangerously close to his shirt sleeve. “And you call me weird.” I smirked. “I don’t call you weird. I call you tragically misunderstood.” “Same difference.” Danny finally glanced up, a streak of blue paint drying across his cheek like some warrior mark. His grin was the kind that made it impossible to stay annoyed. Before I could come up with a comeback, our mom breezed in from the kitchen. Mariah Lawson, thirty years old, already dressed in light blue scrubs, her hair pulled back into a bun that somehow still managed to look elegant. She had that nurse energy: calm, quick moving, with a don’t even think about lying to me expression that made people instantly behave. She carried her work bag over her shoulder and juggled a travel mug of coffee in her free hand. “Are you two arguing already?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s barely nine.” “He started it,” I said automatically. “She’s lying,” Danny said at the same time. His brush splattered another dot of paint onto his cheek. Mom sighed, though the corners of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a laugh. “Every Saturday, same script. You’d think I’d be able to sleep in one of these days.” “Not with us around,” Danny said proudly, like being chaos incarnate was an award. I shut my book with a snap. “Some of us are perfectly quiet, thank you very much. Low maintenance. Content to read all day and never bother anyone.” Mom tilted her head. “Unless there’s ice cream involved.” I clutched my bowl closer. “That doesn’t count.” She sipped her coffee, shaking her head fondly. For all the teasing, this was us our tiny family of three. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked. The truth was, we’d been this way for as long as I could remember. No dad he’d disappeared from the picture when I was too little to remember anything but the faintest echo of his voice. Mom never spoke badly about him, but she never sugarcoated things either. He left. End of story. I grew up learning not to expect much from people who weren’t already in my corner. Books filled that space instead, whole worlds that didn’t leave when things got hard. Ice cream helped too. Always ice cream. Danny didn’t even seem to notice the absence. To him, Mom was enough, and honestly, she was. He had her steady patience, her brown eyes, and her unshakable confidence. Where I was cautious and overly aware of everything, Danny was all-in, all the time. He didn’t care about popularity or whether his hair stuck up in three different directions. He cared about sketching dragons, superheroes, and whatever else popped into his head. Mom was the glue, the steady pulse of our home. Nursing had toughened her up, but it hadn’t hardened her. She could still smile with her whole face, still laugh at Danny’s terrible jokes, still know exactly when to nudge me out of my comfort zone. That morning, she set her coffee on the counter and dug through her bag, fishing for her phone. “All right, ground rules for today: Danny, please don’t use the good towels to clean your brushes again. And Victoria…” “Yes?” I asked, pretending innocence. “Try not to eat ice cream for three meals in a row. Your bones need more than fudge.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “Are you implying ice cream isn’t a balanced diet?” “Exactly what I’m implying.” She gave me the nurse glare, the one that made even stubborn patients give in. I sighed. “Fine. I’ll add sprinkles. Happy?” Danny snorted into his paint water. That’s when Mom’s tone shifted, softer but more serious. “By the way, I talked to Aunt Clara last night. She confirmed Angela will be here next week.” Danny perked up immediately. “Is she the cousin from New York?” I rolled my eyes. “No, Danny, she’s the cousin from Antarctica. Of course she’s the one from New York.” Ignoring me, he leaned forward eagerly. “Is she cool? Does she like dragons? Can she draw?” Mom chuckled. “She’s… different from us. Angela’s always been confident, stylish. Clara says she’s excited about the transfer.” “Transfer,” I repeated flatly. That was one way to put it. The rumors okay, mostly Aunt Clara’s vague, panicked phone calls hinted that Angela had gotten into “trouble” at her school. The kind of trouble adults didn’t spell out but made their voices drop when they mentioned. All I knew was that she’d been too glamorous, too magnetic, too much of something, and now she was being shipped to our small town like a reality show contestant who didn’t fit the vibe of her season. Angela was nineteen, a senior, and the kind of girl who turned hallways into runways. Tall, curvy, with dark glossy hair and lips like they belonged on a magazine cover. Basically, everything I wasn’t. I was short, blonde, book-obsessed, with the kind of lip gloss collection that looked like it came free with a tween magazine. “She’s only staying with us until Clara figures things out,” Mom added, her eyes flicking to me. “But I want both of you to make her feel welcome.” Danny saluted with his paintbrush, almost splattering the wall. “Yes, ma’am.” I muttered, “Define welcome.” “Victoria,” Mom warned. “Fine,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’ll be nice.” She kissed the top of my head on her way out the door. “That’s all I ask. And try not to finish all the ice cream before Angela gets here.” The house settled back into its weekend rhythm after she left. Danny hummed over his dragon drawing, I retreated into my book, and somewhere outside, lawnmowers buzzed like background noise. But my thoughts kept circling back. Angela. I hadn’t seen her since a family reunion years ago, when she’d shown up in a glittery top and convinced half the older cousins to sneak her into a nightclub. I was thirteen, gawky and invisible, and she’d barely looked at me except to say, “Cute dress, Vic.” Which, for the record, was not a compliment. And now she was moving into my room. My room. My sanctuary of fairy lights, stacked novels, and emergency ice cream sandwiches hidden in the mini-freezer. How was I supposed to share that with someone who probably traveled with more heels than I’d ever owned shoes? Danny broke into my spiral by thrusting his sketchbook under my nose. “Look! Finished the dragon.” The dragon was wearing sunglasses. And riding a skateboard. “It’s… very you,” I said carefully. He grinned. “Angela’s gonna love it. Bet she thinks it’s awesome.” “Bet she thinks you’re a weirdo,” I teased, but my chest softened. Danny didn’t care what anyone thought, and sometimes I wished I had that. By the time evening rolled around, I was sprawled on my bed with yet another book. The sky outside was streaked pink and orange. That’s when my phone buzzed. A new message lit up the screen. Angela: Can’t wait to shake things up. See you sooner than you think. My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. “Sooner than we think”? What was that supposed to mean? Danny poked his head into my room, cheeks streaked with paint like always. “Who’s texting you?” I flipped the phone face down. “No one.” But my stomach twisted. Saturday mornings might have been sacred, but change was already at the doorstep. And something told me safe and predictable were about to go on a long vacation.