When My Stepbrothers Say Stop

SIX

On Monday morning, Cindy and I brought home a few flowering plants.

She said Eric had mentioned the day before that the yard looked a little empty, and that some flowers might make it nicer. I carried them out of the car. Cindy said we could plant them tomorrow, but I did not put them away.

I knelt beside the dry patch and pressed my fingers into the soil, then stood again, as if I were waiting for something.

The house was quiet.

I knew Nathan was home.

After a while, I bent down again and scraped at the dirt. Two small tries, and I stopped. The ground was harder than it looked, dust already clinging to my fingers. I could have waited. I could have gone to the garage for a tool. Instead, I stayed there, looking at the patch of earth I had disturbed, unable to pretend I had not meant to start.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

“That’s not going to work.”

When I turned, Nathan was already walking over. He looked at the ground, then at the plants beside me. His voice was calm, as if he were pointing out something perfectly ordinary.

“The soil’s too dry,” he said. “You have to loosen it first.”

He went to the garage and came back with a shovel. When he pressed it into the ground, the sound was soft, but the hard top layer broke open exactly where it needed to. Once the dirt was turned, it looked darker underneath and smelled faintly of dry roots and grass.

“Here,” he said.

I shifted aside and watched him open up the hole. After the soil loosened, everything became much easier. Without another word, he handed me the small shovel.

“Like this?” I asked.

He checked it. “Almost. A little deeper, or it won’t hold.”

I dug farther down the way he told me to.

“That’s good.”

I brought one of the plants over. Its thin stems trembled a little as I set the root ball into the hole. The plant tilted almost at once, and I reached out by instinct to steady it. His hand came down at the same time, brushing my wrist, light as if we had both reached for the exact same place.

“Move it this way a little,” he said.

I was half a beat late before I followed the pressure of his hand and shifted the plant to the side. Our hands did not separate right away. Together, we held the root ball in place. His hand was steady; mine did not quite find the right force, as if the little plant, though so light, had suddenly become something that needed both of us to keep it upright.

“Take your time,” Nathan said. “Just fill the soil in slowly.”

“Okay.”

My voice came out quiet.

We kept the plant steady while he pushed the dirt back in, and I followed his movement, filling the space little by little. My hands slowed with his rhythm. Soil slipped past my fingers and covered the roots a bit at a time, until the flower that had leaned crookedly finally stood more firmly.

“There,” he said, pressing the earth around it. “That should hold.”

I knew I should let go, but my hand stayed there. Only after he withdrew his hand did I take mine away.

Wind moved through the yard, carrying the heavy smell of soil. I looked down at the flower. It was still young, its leaves not yet fully opened, but it had already been planted quietly into the earth behind this house.

“You kind of know how to do everything,” I said.

“No.” Nathan paused, his eyes lowered to the flower. “I just pay attention.”

I had no answer to that.

I looked back at the plant and pressed the last bit of soil into place, drawing my fingers away more carefully than before; it could have waited, and there was no real reason to do it right then except that I had wanted to, but Nathan had not asked why or made it seem unnecessary—he had simply come over, brought the tool, and shown me how to make one small thing stay steady.

At dinner, I set the table the way I usually did.

I paused while adding ice to Nathan’s glass. He never liked too much ice. Even when he bought coffee, he always asked for light ice. So there were four glasses on the table filled to the top, and one with only half as much.

I quickly poured water into all of them, not letting my hands stop.

As if that could make the difference less visible.

I set the glasses down and did not look again. Neil reached for the one closest to him, his fingers lingering on the rim for half a second. Nathan took his own glass too. He said nothing, only looked down at it briefly.

I pulled my hands back and kept my eyes on the table.

The air went still.

Still enough that I could feel that instant stretching.

Neither of them said a word, but I knew I was not the only one who had noticed. That small act had already become too late to pass off as careless.

After dinner, we decided to go for a walk.

By the time we reached the river, the sky had not fully darkened. The wind was stronger there, carrying a damp chill. At first I did not think much of it, but after a few steps I realized the air by the water was colder than I had expected, slipping quickly through my sleeves.

Nathan had already walked a little ahead, then stopped and waited.

“It’s less windy over there,” he said.

I followed him. The path under my feet was slick, and the moment I stepped forward, my balance wavered. His hand came out quickly and steadied me—not with too much force, just enough to keep me upright—then let go almost at once, as if nothing had happened.

“Careful.”

“Thanks.”

I did not look at him.

The wind picked up again, and I instinctively tucked my hands into my sleeves. Nathan saw it and held out his jacket.

“Here. Put this on.”

He made it sound like the simplest thing in the world.

I looked at the jacket for a second, then took it.

Behind us, Neil spoke lazily. “You’re gonna spoil her.”

Nathan did not turn around.

“She’s not used to the weather here.”

He looked down before he answered, without any extra emotion, as if he were simply putting the matter back where it belonged.

The moment the jacket settled over my shoulders, the scent came close—faint, clean, and already familiar. I held my breath without meaning to, then let it out again.

I had not sprayed that bottle of perfume in a long time. Not since Neil had said the smell was familiar.

I pulled the jacket a little higher, but the scent did not fade.

We kept walking, slowly. No one spoke. The river was quiet, and the wind carried sound far away. I walked between them, not deliberately close to either one, yet always half a step behind, then a little forward again.

For some reason, I suddenly felt uneasy, as if all those small things from earlier had been seen.

The half-filled glass of ice.

The flower steadied between our hands.

The jacket resting on my shoulders.

And the scent that would not leave.

Before the thought could take shape, I drew my hands deeper into the jacket.

But the scent remained.

The colder the wind became, the clearer it was.