Come As You Are by Theresa Weir Read Free Book Online Page B

a conditioned reaction—I thought my father was coming home.
    And even though I realized that wasn’t the case, I still expected to see him step inside, put down his briefcase, and hang his coat and hat on the rack.
    Muffled footsteps. “Hello? Anybody home?”
    I closed and opened my eyes slowly while taking a stabilizing breath. Ian. My new brother.
    My weird reaction had triggered an equally weird one in Sabal. He was blushing and gathering his stuff, slipping out of the office and hurrying through the living room, stopping when he came face-to-face with the new owner.
    I followed, composing myself as I went. “Sabal, this is my stepbrother, Ian.” I would work this stepbrother thing as long as possible because Ian bugged the hell out of me and I needed to torment him.
    They did the normal awkward stuff. Hello. Nice to meet you. And then Sabal ducked out, leaving me with Ian.
    “He was my dad’s TA.” I felt the need to explain why I was in the house, and why another person was in the house.
    “That’s okay. This place isn’t really mine yet anyway. And like I said, stay as long as you want.” But his backpack was near the door, so he must have been planning to spend some time here himself.
    “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
    “I don’t know.” He remained glued to the living room floor. “I thought the house would be empty. You said you were going to work. I’ll come back some other time.”
    “No problem. I’m leaving soon, and I was lying about work.”
    He nodded, as if that didn’t surprise him.
    I showed him around, but after the tour started I thought: How stupid. He doesn’t need me leading him around, pointing to the kitchen. “And here’s the refrigerator.” I opened it. The fucking ham was still there, and it looked like there was more of it now. Christ, there was another whole one next to the platter of slices. I slammed the door.
    “And there’s the sink.”
    I reached around a corner, groping blindly for a switch. “Basement is down here. Washer and dryer, plus a shower and toilet.” I turned off the light because I saw no reason to go downstairs.
    Back through the living room. And why wasn’t he talking? At the bar I just wanted him to shut up, but now, with him in my house—correction, his house—things felt even weirder, and I didn’t think that was possible.
    He’d already seen the living room and dining room and office. He followed me upstairs, our boots way too loud on the wooden steps. I wished I’d put on some music because I seemed to be picking up sounds I didn’t want to hear, like my stomach making noises. Not hungry noises, but nervous and abused noises.
    “You know, Iceland has an app that will tell you if two people are related,” I said as I turned the corner at the landing, my hand on the square post the way my hand had touched it ever since I was tall enough to reach. “That would have come in handy last night, huh? So if you’re out drinking and you meet somebody you…” My words trailed off. “How does it know? I mean, you can’t put a drop of your blood on the iPhone screen.”
    “Maybe you enter your personal info. Like age and date-of-birth. Maybe the names of your parents and grandparents.”
    “Yeah.” I nodded. “That might be.”
    Once again I wanted to run. I pictured myself pushing him aside, tearing down the stairs, jumping on my bike, and pedaling away.
    “Three bedrooms.” I sounded like a real estate agent. “Bathroom at the end of the hall. We had it redone about five years ago so it’s pretty nice. And up there?” I pointed above our heads to the square door in the ceiling. “That’s a crawl space. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve never been in it. Too creepy, and I don’t like dark, tight spaces. But you might want to check it out. Not sure if there’s anything stored there. Kind of doubt it.”
    And then we reached my room.
    Purple walls. India print bedspread from a head shop in Dinkytown. Incense