master bedroom with south-facing windows and a French door leading out to a tiny balcony. It had a spacious walk-in closet and a master bath with a garden tub and a separate shower.
The sheep shed was a sunny, happy space for one person—two if you were really getting along. It would have been perfect, if only it had been mine.
“For all intents and purposes, it is yours,” Tag would say whenever I offered to buy him out. “It’s just a business thing.”
“It’s not a business thing,” I’d say. “It’s a control thing. You’re a total control freak.”
“I know you are, but what am I?” my stupid brother would say.
I put everything I’d pilfered from Tag’s house in the fridge and bumped my suitcase up the stairs in front of me. I had a stacked washer and dryer tucked into a corner of the walk-in, so I dumped out my dirty clothes on the floor in front of them. A pair of stretched-out dingy underpants rose to the surface, and for a minute I thought my ripped underpants had mysteriously reappeared after I had abandoned them in the hotel elevator. Then I remembered that, minus the rip, I owned a wardrobe full of clones.
I opened my underwear drawer and started throwing underpants on the floor, one after another after another. Big fat ugly underpants I’d fallen into wearing after Mitchell moved out the last time. Because they were comfortable. Because no one was going to see them anyway. Because I really didn’t give a shit. About anything. Anymore.
I turned my head, but before I could close my eyes in self-defense, the way I usually did, I caught myself in the closet’s full-length mirror. I tried to look at myself as if I were assessing a stranger. My eyes had raccoon circles under them from yesterday’s mascara. My hairwas flattened on one side and sticking out on the other. I was wearing baggy sweats and a baggier T-shirt and I looked lumpy and bumpy and frumpy. It was as if my shrunken insides had donated their weight, their bulk, to my outside.
I closed my eyes and rolled the top of my sweats down over my hips. I rolled the bottom of my T-shirt up as high as it could go. Then I counted to three and made myself open my eyes and face the mirror again.
I tried leaning forward. I angled to the right and then to the left. I pulled in my stomach and held my breath. I squinted my eyes in case I’d lucked out and Steve was nearsighted. But even if I factored out the toothpaste drool cascading from my mouth, the man who had walked into my hotel room had seen, up close and personal, the disaster I’d become.
If only I could turn back the clock. I’d be in killer shape when I met Steve Moretti. I’d be wearing dazzling underwear when he walked in on me. By the time he figured out I was Tag’s sister, he’d have already fallen head over heels for me . He wouldn’t want to use me to get to Tag. He’d only want to get to me. When Tag found out about us and got all territorial, we’d already be a couple. We could both tell Tag to get over himself. Together.
My head was starting to pound. Really pound. I was old enough to know my Austin meltdown wasn’t only about Steve. He was just one more person in a long, long line of people trying to use me to get to the rest of my family. If only I’d hightailed it out of town as soon as I graduated from college. I would have called my family once a week and sent presents on holidays. Visited for a week in the summer, or maybe early fall, when it was still beach weather but the tourists were gone.
I’d drifted through high school, mostly marking time. Tag played in a band and Colleen was an artist, so those worlds were taken. If I joined a club or tried out for a play, the minute I turned aroundJoanie would be right behind me. Until I could get out from under the shadow of my siblings, it didn’t seem possible to carve out a space of my own.
Even my friends seemed more interested in my family than in me. Do you think Tag will be home? they’d ask as we
The sheep shed was a sunny, happy space for one person—two if you were really getting along. It would have been perfect, if only it had been mine.
“For all intents and purposes, it is yours,” Tag would say whenever I offered to buy him out. “It’s just a business thing.”
“It’s not a business thing,” I’d say. “It’s a control thing. You’re a total control freak.”
“I know you are, but what am I?” my stupid brother would say.
I put everything I’d pilfered from Tag’s house in the fridge and bumped my suitcase up the stairs in front of me. I had a stacked washer and dryer tucked into a corner of the walk-in, so I dumped out my dirty clothes on the floor in front of them. A pair of stretched-out dingy underpants rose to the surface, and for a minute I thought my ripped underpants had mysteriously reappeared after I had abandoned them in the hotel elevator. Then I remembered that, minus the rip, I owned a wardrobe full of clones.
I opened my underwear drawer and started throwing underpants on the floor, one after another after another. Big fat ugly underpants I’d fallen into wearing after Mitchell moved out the last time. Because they were comfortable. Because no one was going to see them anyway. Because I really didn’t give a shit. About anything. Anymore.
I turned my head, but before I could close my eyes in self-defense, the way I usually did, I caught myself in the closet’s full-length mirror. I tried to look at myself as if I were assessing a stranger. My eyes had raccoon circles under them from yesterday’s mascara. My hairwas flattened on one side and sticking out on the other. I was wearing baggy sweats and a baggier T-shirt and I looked lumpy and bumpy and frumpy. It was as if my shrunken insides had donated their weight, their bulk, to my outside.
I closed my eyes and rolled the top of my sweats down over my hips. I rolled the bottom of my T-shirt up as high as it could go. Then I counted to three and made myself open my eyes and face the mirror again.
I tried leaning forward. I angled to the right and then to the left. I pulled in my stomach and held my breath. I squinted my eyes in case I’d lucked out and Steve was nearsighted. But even if I factored out the toothpaste drool cascading from my mouth, the man who had walked into my hotel room had seen, up close and personal, the disaster I’d become.
If only I could turn back the clock. I’d be in killer shape when I met Steve Moretti. I’d be wearing dazzling underwear when he walked in on me. By the time he figured out I was Tag’s sister, he’d have already fallen head over heels for me . He wouldn’t want to use me to get to Tag. He’d only want to get to me. When Tag found out about us and got all territorial, we’d already be a couple. We could both tell Tag to get over himself. Together.
My head was starting to pound. Really pound. I was old enough to know my Austin meltdown wasn’t only about Steve. He was just one more person in a long, long line of people trying to use me to get to the rest of my family. If only I’d hightailed it out of town as soon as I graduated from college. I would have called my family once a week and sent presents on holidays. Visited for a week in the summer, or maybe early fall, when it was still beach weather but the tourists were gone.
I’d drifted through high school, mostly marking time. Tag played in a band and Colleen was an artist, so those worlds were taken. If I joined a club or tried out for a play, the minute I turned aroundJoanie would be right behind me. Until I could get out from under the shadow of my siblings, it didn’t seem possible to carve out a space of my own.
Even my friends seemed more interested in my family than in me. Do you think Tag will be home? they’d ask as we
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