When My Stepbrothers Say Stop

FOUR

The next morning, everything seemed the same as usual. When I came downstairs, someone was already at the dining table.

Neil was not there. Nathan stood in the kitchen with his back to me. When he heard me, he turned and looked over.

“Morning,” he said. “Cindy and Eric left early for the farmers’ market in a nearby town.”

“No wonder it’s so quiet,” I said, “Sounds like they’ll find a lot of good stuff.”

He did not answer. He only wiped the counter clean and set breakfast out as if it were nothing. Only after I sat down did I notice the small bowl of fruit on my side, cut neatly into pieces—all the kinds I had reached for more than once the day before.

I said nothing, only pulled the bowl a little closer. Nathan did not mention it either, as if it was not something that needed to be spoken of.

He stayed in the kitchen a little longer. Then he came out and sat across from me. Neither of us said much. There was only the occasional sound of silverware touching a plate.

When I picked up my glass, my hand paused. I could not have said why. Something inside me seemed to shift, so lightly I almost missed it. I took a sip of water and pushed the feeling down.

After breakfast, I cleared my plate and was about to go upstairs when I stopped halfway.

“Still got SAT questions?” Nathan’s voice came from behind me.

I turned back to look at him. “A few.”

“Bring them down if you want,” he said.

I went upstairs for my book. By the time I sat down at the table again, he had already made a little room for me. He did not say much, only sat across from me naturally, his own book open in front of him, one hand resting loosely by the edge of the table as he lowered his eyes to what I had written.

I did not notice how much time had passed. Nathan looked over the problem quietly, the same way he always did—patient enough to make me feel less stupid before I even understood why.

“You’re skipping again,” he said.

I frowned. “Am I?”

“You are.” He tapped the line I had written with his fingertip. “Right here.”

I did not really want to admit it, but he was right.

“So how do I fix it?” I asked, my voice a little lower than before.

He did not answer right away. He only moved his chair a little closer to me. It was a small movement, so light the chair legs barely made a sound, but I still felt it.

“Read it again,” he said.

I did as he said—or at least, I tried to, because he was close to me now. He was not touching me, but he was close enough that I caught that faint scent again. Clean, cool, not like laundry detergent, not like the coffee left in the kitchen either. More like something that belonged to him so naturally he carried it without thinking.

Halfway through reading, I suddenly stopped.

Nathan looked at me. “What?”

I kept my eyes on the problem, my voice softening without meaning to. “What’s that scent?”

He did not seem to understand at once. “What scent?”

“Yours.” As soon as I said it, I realized how strange it sounded, so I quickly added, “I mean, it’s not laundry detergent, right?”

His eyes stayed on my face for a second, then moved away lightly.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

I waited, but he did not explain further. He only turned his attention back to the paper, as if the question had left no trace in the air.

“Read it from the top,” he said.

I turned back to the problem and tried to pull myself into it again. When he spoke, nothing in him rushed me; when he looked at me, there was no pressure, no impatience. Instead, he gave me the illusion that I was not doing as badly as I thought. I read it again, and this time, I seemed to understand a little more.

“Make sense now?” he asked.

I said yes, not knowing whether I was answering him or hiding the fact that I had been distracted a moment ago.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The air quieted, almost too much. I went back to writing. The pen grew faintly warm in my hand. The awkwardness from before was slowly pressed down, as if I had finally found a rhythm that could carry me forward.

Then the door from the kitchen to the backyard opened and closed, and footsteps came in from outside.

Neil came in through the back door, phone in hand. He looked from me to Nathan, then smiled as if nothing was wrong.

Somehow, that made the room feel wrong.

“Studying this hard already?” he said, his voice carrying an easy hint of amusement.

Before I could answer, he looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“You coming?”

I froze for a second. “Where?”

“Out.” He slipped his phone into his pocket, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. “Just for a walk.”

“I’m not done.”

“You can finish later.”

I frowned. “I still need to ask him—”

“Ask him tomorrow.”

He said it so smoothly, as if it did not matter at all. I stopped, hesitating for just that one second, then instinctively looked at Nathan.

He had already leaned back in his chair. The little distance from before was gone. So was that faint scent, as if it had never happened at all.

“Should we keep going?” I asked.

I did not know why I asked him. Maybe I only wanted him to say we should continue, even if it was nothing more than an ordinary sentence.

Nathan looked at me and shook his head.

“That’s enough for today.”

His tone was flat, without any extra emotion, as if he were stating the most ordinary fact. Still, it left no room to argue.

“Come on,” Neil said.

He had already turned and was walking out, without looking back.

I gathered my things more slowly than I needed to, then followed. At the doorway, I still looked back. Nathan was still sitting at the table, his head already lowered to his book again, as if nothing had happened.

For a second, it felt as though something had suddenly gone missing.

The thought that I was not doing so badly, the calm that had slowly settled over me while I worked through the problem—it seemed to break off all at once. I did not think about it any further. I turned and walked out.

Neil slowed his steps in front of me and looked back.

“You really like homework that much?”

“No,” I said.

Outside, the air was cooler. Neil talked like nothing had happened, and after a while I managed to follow his pace. But whatever had been cut off at the table did not disappear. It only went quiet.

When we came back, the house was quiet, as if nothing had changed. I took off my shoes and walked in. The dining table was still where it had been. The books were still open. The chairs had not moved. It was as though that brief stretch of time had never happened.

I paused by the doorway, refusing to think too much. Then I walked over to put my books away, my movements slower than they should have been. Just as I closed the last page, I noticed something on the corner of the table.

A small box.

The packaging was clean, with no unnecessary decoration, but it clearly had not been left there by accident. I reached for it, and opened it. Inside was a new bottle of perfume. The bottle was simple, the color pale, the kind of clean scent that did not call attention to itself, but had plainly been chosen with care.

I froze.

“Was that what you meant?”

The voice came from beside me.

I turned and saw Nathan standing by the table, the book he had just put away still in his hand, as if he had only meant to return something. His tone was as calm as ever.

“The scent you asked about,” he said. “It wasn’t detergent. It was this.”

He stopped after that. He did not explain, as if he were merely correcting something perfectly ordinary.

My hand stayed on the bottle. For a second, I could not move.

He remembered.

He had not heard it in passing.

He had not left this here by accident.

I did not let myself follow it, and I did not ask. I only closed the bottle, my movements slower than before.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice so light it hardly sounded like mine.

Nathan answered, “Sure.”

He did not look at me for long, as if the whole thing was not worth making a moment out of.

But it already was one.

Back in my room, I opened the box again. The scent slipped out, faint but steadier than before, and the thing Neil had interrupted at the table seemed to come back with it.

I told myself I would leave it alone. A few minutes later, I sprayed a little on my wrist.

The scent opened quickly against my skin. When I brought my wrist closer, it was like before—only clearer, steadier, as if something that had once brushed past me from him had been held there for a little while.

When I went downstairs that evening, someone was in the living room.

Neil was leaning by the couch, scrolling through his phone. Hearing me, he looked up. I nodded and started inside, but after I had taken a few steps closer, he suddenly paused, as if something had caught his attention. His eyes stayed on me for half a second.

“That smell…” he said, frowning slightly, as if trying to place it.

My heart tightened.

“Kind of familiar.”

“What?” I said almost by instinct.

Only after the word came out did I realize I had answered too quickly.

Neil looked at me, as if he had caught that tiny slip.

I turned and went straight back upstairs, my steps faster than before. Once I was in my room, I shut the door, went into the bathroom, turned the water on high, and held my wrist under the stream for a while.

The scent did not come off that easily.

I scrubbed my wrist until the scent finally faded. By the time I turned off the faucet, the skin there had gone faintly red.

There was still a trace of the scent in the air.

I could not tell whether it was still on me, or whether I only thought it was.

I stayed there without going out, as if a few more seconds could make the whole thing pass.

But I knew it wouldn’t.

That sentence had not stayed in the living room.

It had stayed inside me.