“I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Oh, you did that, for sure!” I chuckle nervously, taking my clothes into the bathroom. Before I close the door, I say to them half-kiddingly, “Don’t talk about me while I’m not in the room.”
I dress with my ear practically pressed against the bathroom door. I’m terrified about what Hank might say.
I barely hear Jude ask, “So… are you going to visit your parents whilst you’re here?”
I’d whimper, but I don’t want to miss Hank’s answer, which is a hesitant, “Uh, I might swing by there, but it’s not really my style.”
“You don’t think they’d be happy to see you?” Jude presses.
Hank pauses, then says, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t believe in that shit.”
I barely have my jeans over my hips and my shirt tugged down before I crash back in on their conversation. “Hey! Uh, we should do something together later today, just the two of us,” I say to Hank as I zip my fly and button my pants.
“Jesus, Libby,” he gripes, looking away. “You could have finished getting dressed before coming back out here. It’s a little early in the morning to be seeing my sister’s snatch.”
Jude’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he grabs his keys from the counter. “I’ll get out of your way, then.” Quickly, he finger-combs his hair.
If he’s expecting me to object, he’s overestimated my ability to act coolly under pressure. All I can think about is getting these two away from each other, and his voluntary departure fits well into that plan. When he spins his keys noisily around his index finger, I say meekly, “Call you later?”
He raises his eyebrows on his way past me. “Whatever,” he replies. “Good meeting you, Hank.” With that, he’s gone, the slammed door vibrating the walls.
“Leave it to you to find a weird one,” Hank remarks in Jude’s wake.
“He’s not weird,” I say to defend him.
“He has an interesting notion of the afterlife, that’s for sure.”
I busy myself making coffee as my little brother takes a seat on one of the barstools at the counter. “He doesn’t know they’re dead,” I say matter-of-factly. “Let’s keep it that way for now.”
“You’re such a freak,” he grumbles.
Whirling around, I object, “No, I’m not!” At least not as much as I used to be.
“Then why don’t you just tell him, for Christ’s sake?”
“I will, okay? I just have never found the right time.”
“‘Dude, my parents are dead.’ How hard is that to say to someone? It’s a lot easier than keeping it some big stupid secret.”
I roll my eyes at him and change the subject. “So, what brings you to town?” I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and not come right out and ask how much money he needs.
The goofy grin he shoots me reminds me of what he looked like when we were kids, and I realize I’ve missed him.
“Just thought I’d take a week off before the fall semester starts, come up here and check on my big sister. I didn’t think you’d be… busy.”
I pull two cups from the cupboard and set them in front of him. Leaning on my elbows on the countertop and wiggling my butt, I smile devilishly. “Yeah. Well, normally I’m not. But I have been lately. Very busy.”
“Took my advice to get laid, huh?”
Instead of being touchy, I stick my tongue out at him. “Maybe. But not because you told me to. You’re not the boss of me.”
He reaches across and pulls my hair. I playfully slap his face.
After we go back and forth like that a few times, I turn and grab the carafe of freshly brewed coffee. As I pour each of us a cup, he says, “You’re a lot different than the last time I saw you. I like your hair like that. Did you hire a life coach or something?”
“A what?”
“Life coach. Someone who works with you on your issues and kind of gives your life a makeover.” He sips his coffee, then dumps about seven tablespoons of sugar in it. “A miracle worker, in other words. At least in your case.” He pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and stifles a smile, waiting for me to object to his diagnosis.
Instead, I simply ask, “There’s such a thing?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, man. I’m thinking of becoming one.” He stirs what must be something close to coffee syrup.
“I thought you were studying to be a pharmacist.” I cross my arms.
Keeping his eyes on his swirling drink, he replies. “Yeah. Well, I don’t know. I can’t imagine counting pills for the rest of my life. And giving old people advice about how to stay regular.” Then he looks up at me and smirks. “You’re just disappointed you won’t be getting any free dope.”
Suddenly I realize I never combed my hair after my shower. I walk into the bathroom to do so, saying, “If I’m disappointed about anything—which I’m not; it’s your life—I’d say it’s that you’re changing your major—again—right before what would be your senior year. Are you ever going to graduate?”
“What’s it to you?” he says loudly, so I can hear him. “It’s not your money.”
I pause mid-stroke as I drag the comb through my hair. I don’t want to fight with him (he fights dirty, for one thing), but I can’t resist pointing out, “I just want you to have some money left to get settled after you graduate. That’s all.”
“Just because you live like a nun—well, strike that. Anyway, just because you have some kind of oddball thing against spending the money our parents left us doesn’t mean I’m wrong because I don’t have a problem with it.” Sulkily, he adds, “It’s not like I’m out buying fast cars.”
“No, just pissing it
