My Stepbrother's Obsession

I've been living with a ghost for two years. That's what Crew feels like in this house. A presence I sense but never see, a shadow that disappears around corners before I can catch it. We share a roof, share parents, share last names on mail that comes to the same address, but we might as well exist in different dimensions. I'm fine with that. More than fine, actually. "Sloane, honey, can you set the table?" Mom calls from the kitchen, her voice bright with the kind of happiness that still catches me off guard. Two years of marriage to David, and she still glows like a newlywed. I should be grateful. After Dad left, after years of watching her shrink into herself, this version of Patricia Harper-Mathison is a miracle. I grab plates from the cabinet, counting out four even though I know there's a seventy percent chance Crew won't show. He never does for family dinners. Always has some excuse about the shop, about a restoration project that can't wait, about literally anything that keeps him in that apartment above the garage. "Is Crew coming?" I ask, knowing the answer. "He said he'd try." Mom's smile dims slightly. She's never understood why her blended family vision hasn't materialized, why her daughter and stepson can't manage basic civility. The front door opens. My hands freeze mid-reach for the silverware. Crew walks into the dining room, and I forget how to breathe. It happens every time I see him, this stupid physical reaction my body has before my brain can shut it down. He's tall enough that he has to duck slightly through the doorway, broad-shouldered in a way that his grease-stained work shirt emphasizes rather than hides. Dark blonde hair falls across his forehead, and those ice-blue eyes sweep the room before landing on me. For exactly three seconds, we make eye contact. My stomach drops like I've missed a step in the dark. Then he looks away, and I can breathe again. "Crew! You made it!" Mom practically bounces into the room, kissing his cheek. He accepts it stiffly, the way he accepts all affection, like he's not quite sure what to do with it. "Smells good," he says. His voice is deep, quiet, the kind of voice that makes you lean in to hear properly. I don't lean in. I finish setting the table with sharp, precise movements, hyperaware of exactly where he is in the room. By the window. Now by the bar cart where David keeps bourbon. Now pulling out a chair. The one directly across from mine. Fantastic. Dinner is torturous in the way all our family dinners are torturous. Mom and David chat about their day, about David's consulting project, about Mom's latest book deadline. Crew and I eat in silence, occasionally offering monosyllabic responses when directly addressed. Under the table, my leg bounces with nervous energy. I feel him watching me. I don't look up to confirm it, but I know. The same way I always know when he's in a room, when he's near, like my body has developed some kind of Crew-radar that I can't shut off no matter how hard I try. "Sloane's doing wonderfully in her psychology program," Mom says, because she can't help herself. "Dean's list again this semester." "Congratulations." Crew's voice is flat, disinterested. Something hot and ugly twists in my chest. I stab a piece of chicken with more force than necessary. "Thanks." "Maybe you can analyze why some people are so antisocial," I add, smiling sweetly. His eyes snap to mine. There's something dangerous in them, something that makes my pulse spike. "Maybe you can analyze why some people can't mind their own business." "Kids," David warns, but there's no real heat in it. He's used to our cold war by now. The rest of dinner passes in tense silence. I help Mom clear the table, declining her offer of dessert. "I have studying to do." It's not a lie. I do have studying. But mostly I need to escape the suffocating awareness of Crew's presence, the way the air feels too thick when we're in the same room. I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear it. Footsteps behind me. I turn. Crew is at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the banister, looking up at me with an expression I can't read. "What?" I snap, more defensive than the situation warrants. He opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw clenches, and I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin. For a long moment, he just stares at me, and I feel pinned under that gaze like a butterfly on a board. "Nothing," he finally says. "Goodnight, Sloane." He turns and walks away, out the front door, back toward his apartment above the garage. I stand there on the stairs, heart pounding, wondering why it feels like something just happened when nothing happened at all. My bedroom is my sanctuary. White walls, soft gray bedding, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the backyard. I love those windows, love the natural light they let in during the day. At night, with the curtains open, I can see the stars. I change into sleep shorts and a tank top, pulling my dark hair into a messy bun. My psychology textbook is open on my bed, but I can't focus on the chapter about personality disorders. My mind keeps drifting back to dinner, to the way Crew looked at me on the stairs. Like he wanted to say something important. Like he was barely holding something back. I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is ridiculous. Crew has made his feelings perfectly clear since day one. Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours. We've honored that agreement faithfully for two years. Whatever I think I saw in his eyes tonight was projection, nothing more. My phone buzzes. A text from my friend Maya: "Study group tomorrow at Morrison's? Need help with abnormal psych." I'm typing a response when I feel it again. That sensation of being watched. I look up at my windows. They're dark mirrors now, reflecting my own room back at me. I can't see outside, can't see the backyard or the garage or anything beyond the glass. But someone could see in. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that I tell myself is unease but feels dangerously close to something else. I cross to the windows, reaching for the curtains. My hand hesitates on the fabric. I don't close them. Instead, I turn off the overhead light, leaving only my bedside lamp on. Soft, warm illumination that doesn't reflect off the glass as harshly. Now I can see outside a little better. The garage apartment is dark except for one window. Crew's bedroom, I think, though I've never been up there. As I watch, a light turns on. And I see him. Just for a moment, just a silhouette in the window, but I know it's him. He's looking this direction. Looking at my house. At my window. At me. My breath catches. I should step back, draw the curtains, give us both privacy. Instead, I stand there, frozen, holding his gaze across the dark expanse of yard between us. Neither of us moves. The moment stretches, elastic and strange, until I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. Then Crew steps back from his window and the light goes out, plunging his apartment into darkness. I stand there for ten more minutes, staring at that dark window, before I finally climb into bed. I don't close my curtains. And as I'm drifting off to sleep, I could swear I see a small red light blinking in the corner of my room, up near the ceiling vent. But when I blink and look again, it's gone.