Forbidden Desires: the step brother who ruined me

Chapter one I knew I was screwed the second I heard his flight landed, not the cute kind of screwed that kind where you realize you've spent eights months lying to yourself, and now the bill is due . Eight full months of calling Rubben Carter my stepbrother, eight months of correcting myself every time my brain slipped, Eight months of 1am thoughts I buried under my pillow so Mom wouldn’t hear me being pathetic. The house was chaos that morning, but it was the kind of chaos that had a purpose. My mom Mrs. Margaret was everywhere at once, She’d been cooking since dawn. Roasted chicken. Garlic potatoes. Bread from scratch because “store-bought isn’t good enough for Rubben.” She kept yelling for the good plates, the ones we only used for Christmas and when Mr. Carter’s boss came over. Mr. Carter was worse. He’d checked his watch twelve times in the last hour. Phone in one hand, keys already in the other. “Traffic from the airport should be light. He should be here any minute.” He’d said that five times. Every time, his voice got a little brighter, proud dad voice. I was at the dining table, folding napkins into squares because my hands needed something to do. They were shaking. And I was furious about it. “Lia, honey.” Mr. Carter finally stopped pacing around and looked at me. “You’re pale. Sure you've eaten ?” I tried to laugh but It came out wrong. “Been a while since he’s been home.” “a while indeed” he said, and his whole face softened. “He asks about you, you know. Every call. Doesn’t matter what country he’s in or what meeting he’s in. First thing he says is, ‘How’s Lia? Is Lia good? Tell Lia I—’” He stopped himself, smiling like he’d said too much. I knew Rubben asked about me. He always had. Since I was fourteen and crying because a boy at school called me flat, and Rubben, who was eighteen then, told me the boy was an i***t and I was going to be dangerous one day. He thought about me. Just never in the way I thought about him when the house was less rowdy my brain was cruel. Never in the way that made my chest hurt and my hands fist the sheets. I couldn’t do this. I needed air before my face betrayed me. I didn’t say anything. Just walked out the front door and let it shut behind me. August heat hit my skin, It should’ve been comforting but It wasn’t. Get it together, Lia. He’s your stepbrother. He helped raise you. He taught you how to drive and didn’t yell when you scraped his car. He calls you tiny because you were five when he met you and you hid behind Mom’s legs. He calls you tiny because it keeps you in a box. A safe, little-sister box. A box that doesn’t have feelings that would ruin everything. It wasn’t working, the box had cracks Had for years. Then I heard it. The low, expensive purr of an engine coming up the driveway. My lungs stopped. Just stopped. The black SUV came through the gate. Slow. Tinted windows. The kind of car that doesn’t ask for attention but gets it anyway. He was home. Mom was already running. “Rubben!” Mr. Carter followed, grinning like he was twenty again. “Son!” I walked. One foot. Then the other. If I moved too fast, I’d either launch myself at him or collapse. Both were unacceptable. The driver’s door opened. And the world went quiet in a way that had nothing to do with sound. Rubben stepped out. No, that’s wrong. Stepping implies normal. This wasn’t normal. He unfolded from the car. Like the eight months had been spent in some private forge, and he came out harder and sharper. Taller than I remembered, or maybe I’d just forgotten how he took up space. Shoulders broader under a plain black shirt. Hair longer, falling over his forehead and into his eyes. Jaw cut from stone. And there was something else. A calmness He used to move fast, talk fast, laugh fast. Now he was… contained. Like he’d learned how to hold himself back. He looked like a man who’d figured out how to win and was bored by it. His eyes scanned the driveway. Over Mom. Past Mr. Carter. And landed on me. For a second, the calmness cracked. He smiled. Not the polite one he gave strangers. Not the charming one he used in photos. The real one. The one he used at 3am when it was just us on the phone and he’d say, “Can’t sleep. Talk to me, tiny. Tell me something stupid.” “Lia.” Just my name. Then his hands were on my waist. And I was off the ground. He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Like I was made of air. His arms locked around me, tight and absolute, and my face ended up against his chest. He was solid. Warm. He smelled like expensive cologne and airplanes and something underneath that was just him. Soap and skin and a scent I’d tried to forget but failed. He set me down slowly. Reluctantly. But his hands didn’t leave. They slid from my waist to my arms. Like he was checking. Like he needed to make sure Real. His eyes moved over my face. My hair. My mouth. Cataloging. Memorizing. “You’ve grown,” he said. And there was something in his voice. Something that wasn’t brotherly. Something that vanished Then he laughed. Soft. “Still tiny though.” There it was... Tiny. The word he’d been using since I was fourteen and came up to his shoulder. The word that was supposed to be affectionate. The word that was a wall between us. Tiny meant little sister. Tiny meant off-limits. Tiny meant “don’t look at me like that, Lia.” I opened my mouth. I don’t know what I was going to say. Maybe “I’m not a kid anymore.” Maybe “Stop calling me that.” Maybe “Do you even see me?” I never got the chance. Because he moved and turned his head. Looked past me toward the SUV. And my stomach fell through the ground. The other door opened. A woman got out. And I understood, in one brutal, instantaneous second, what every girl in high school meant when they said “she’s out of your league.” She was tall. Not just tall....statuesque. Legs that went on forever. Hair that fell in dark waves past her shoulders, the kind of hair that belonged in commercials. She wore a simple white dress, but it fit her like it had been sewn onto her body. And her face. God. High cheekbones. Full mouth. Eyes that were calm and knowing. She was the kind of beautiful that made you want to apologize for existing in the same space. She smiled. At the house. At Mom. At the world , Like she owned all of it. Rubben’s whole body changed. He lit up. Proud and Happy. “Oh,” he said, and his voice was different. Lighter. “Everyone, this is Mara. My girlfriend.” The word hit me in the center of my chest. Girlfriend. It echoed until it wasn’t a word. It was a sound. A bad sound. Like metal tearing. Eight months. Eight months of calls. Eight months of “I miss you, tiny” and “What are you doing? No, don’t tell me, I have a meeting in ten” and “You should be sleeping, it’s late there.” Eight months of me being the biggest fool on the planet. He never told me. Not once. Not a hint. Not a “hey, I met someone.” Mara walked forward. Graceful and Confident. She hugged Mom like they’d known each other for years. “Mrs. Carter, finally. Rubben talks about you constantly. I feel like I know you.” Mr. Carter shook her hand, grinning. “Welcome to the family, Mara. We’ve heard a lot about you.” Family. The word was a brand. Rubben looked at me then. He was still smiling. Still happy. “Lia, this is Mara. You’ll love her. She’s amazing.” Love her. He just took a knife, carved her name into my ribs, and now he wanted me to send a thank-you note. I swallowed. My throat felt like it was full of broken glass. “Hi.” “I’ve heard so much about you,” Mara said, and her voice was warm. Honey and cream. “Rubben says you’re the artist. The creative one. He showed me pictures of your paintings.” He showed her. My paintings. The ones I did at 2am when I couldn’t sleep. The ones I sent him because I thought he’d get it. He showed her. Probably in bed. After. While she was laying on his chest. I nodded. Didn’t trust myself to speak. If I opened my mouth, something ugly would come out. Then Rubben moved, His hand went to the small of Mara’s back. It was automatic. Casual. The kind of touch you don’t think about because it’s yours to give. The one I’d seen in movies and hated. The one I’d felt in dreams that left me ashamed and shaking. The one I’d imagined on my own skin He touched her like she belonged to him. Because she did. “Lia, you gonna stand there all day?” Mom laughed, but her eyes were worried. “Aren’t you happy Rubben’s home?” I looked at his hand on Mara. At the way she leaned into him without thinking. At how perfectly they fit together. Like two pieces of something I wasn’t part of. I made my mouth move. Made it curve up. “So happy.” They started toward the house. Rubben, Mara, Mom, Mr. Carter. A unit. Talking. Laughing. I didn’t follow. And I’d never felt like in a stranger in my own house . Mom had outdone herself. The table was covered. Roasted chicken with herbs. Garlic potatoes. Green beans. Bread she’d baked that morning because “Rubben loves the smell of fresh bread.” Candles in the center because “he deserves a warm welcome.” I got put across from him. The universe had a sick sense of humor. Which meant I had a front-row seat to everything. Mara sat on his right. Close. Her shoulder almost touching his. Her hand found him constantly. His forearm when she laughed. His knee under the table I saw the shift of fabric. His hand when she was talking to Mom. And he let her. Worse, he touched her back. He laughed at her jokes. The same jokes he’d told me over the phone. The ones I’d laughed at, trying to sound light and fun and not like a girl in love with her stepbrother. “Trip was insane,” he was telling Mr. Carter. “Six countries in three months. Deals, meetings, dinners. I learned a lot. About business. About what I want.” His eyes flicked up when he said “want.” And for one stupid, hopeful second, they met mine. Or I imagined it. I was doing that a lot tonight. Imagining things that weren’t there. I looked down at my plate. The chicken looked gray. Everything looked gray. Mara reached for her wine. Her fingers brushed Rubben’s. He didn’t pull away. He turned his hand over and linked their fingers for a second before letting go. The sound my fork made against my plate was too loud. Mom flinched. “Lia?” “Sorry.” I put the fork down. My hand was shaking. I hid it in my lap. “Your mom is an incredible cook, Rubben,” Mara said, smiling at Mom. “This is amazing.” Why wasn’t it me? Why wasn’t I the one sitting on his right? Why wasn’t I the one he was bringing home to meet the parents? Why wasn’t I the one he looked at like that? Why was I still the girl he called tiny and left behind? “Lia, you’re quiet tonight,” Rubben said suddenly. His voice was soft. Gentle. Concerned. The way you talk to a child who’s been too good. “I’m tired,” I lied. The words tasted like ash. “Long day. I’ve got some work I need to finish.” I stood up. Pushed my chair back. “Work?” Mr. Carter frowned. “But Lia, it’s—” “Let her go,” Mom said quietly. She wasn’t looking at Mr. Carter. She was looking at me. And her eyes were sad. Knowing. The way mothers’ eyes get when they see something you’re not ready to say. I didn’t wait for anyone else to speak. I left. Made it to my room. Locked the door. Pressed my back to it and slid down to the floor. And then I broke. Not pretty crying. Not silent tears. Ugly, gasping, shoulder-shaking sobs I had to bite my fist to keep quiet. He was home. He brought her. He still saw me as tiny. He still didn’t see me at all. I was twenty-four years old and I was seventeen again. Watching him take a girl to prom and tell me, “You’ll understand when you’re older, Lia. She’s just a friend.” Only Mara wasn’t a friend. Mara was the end. I was still crying, still biting my knuckle so the house wouldn’t hear, when I heard them. Footsteps in the hall. Stopping outside my door. My heart stopped. Then it started again, And then his voice. And he used the word. The one that was a nickname and a sentence. The one that kept me small. “Lia? Tiny? You crying in there?” My whole body locked up. The doorknob turned. He was coming in.