Chapter 3

Mom had prepared her signature rainbow salad with roasted vegetables tonight—the dining table looked like a miniature version of Portland's farmer's market with all those colorful organic veggies spread out. The scent of herbs and lemon filled the air, and this should have been a perfect family dinner.

I mechanically cut the roasted eggplant on my plate, trying my best not to look at Patrick sitting across from me.

But I could still sense his presence in my peripheral vision—that gray shirt with sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint scratch marks I'd left on his skin last night.

"Fanny, you look a bit pale today. Didn't you get enough sleep last night?" Mom put down her fork, looking at me with concern.

"I'm fine." My voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away.

James wiped his mouth and suddenly brought up, "Oh, did you guys know? Tom, the coffee shop owner's son from the corner, got married last week. I ran into his father at the art center, and the old guy was over the moon—said he finally gets to be a grandfather."

"Oh, Tom got married?" Mom's eyes lit up. "Isn't he only 24? Young people are getting married so early these days."

James nodded, then looked at Patrick with that particular expectant look fathers have. "Speaking of which, Patrick's already 25. He should be thinking about finding a girlfriend."

I nearly dropped my fork.

"Yeah," Mom joined the conversation enthusiastically, "Patrick, do you have someone special in mind?"

"Yes."

Patrick's voice was clear and firm.

I froze.

"Really?" Mom clapped her hands excitedly. "Who is it? Do we know her?"

I forced myself to look up at Patrick, only to find him staring directly at me. Those deep brown eyes held an emotion I couldn't decipher—both tender and dangerous.

"I do have someone I like." He repeated, his voice lower now, "And... you've all met her."

Clang!

My fork dropped onto the plate with a sharp crash. Everyone looked at me.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Mom asked with concern.

"Nothing... nothing at all." I picked up the fork, but my fingers were trembling slightly. "Is it... is it Luna?"

The name felt like it was being squeezed out of my chest. I saw Patrick's gaze become even more intense, but he didn't deny it.

"Luna?" James frowned. "That bassist friend?"

"You could say that..." Patrick's tone was loaded with meaning, "She's very special, lives right around here. And... she means a lot to me."

"She means a lot to me."

Those words hit me like a knife straight to the heart. I felt the whole world spinning, and the smell of roasted vegetables became nauseating.

"That's wonderful!" Mom was beaming. "When will you bring her home for dinner? We'd all love to meet the girl who's captured our Patrick's heart."

"Maybe... soon." Patrick's eyes remained locked on mine. "Though the situation is rather complicated."

I couldn't sit there anymore.

"I... I'm full." I stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair. "I'll go clean up in the kitchen."

"Fanny, you've barely eaten anything..."

"I really don't have much appetite."

I practically fled to the kitchen, leaning against the sink and gasping for air. My palms were sweating, and I felt dizzy.

'He likes Luna. He really likes Luna.'

That beautiful bassist, that girl who worked so intimately with him at the party. I thought about that hair tie on Patrick's guitar bag, about the suggestive text Luna had sent to his phone.

'What the hell was I expecting? We're siblings, damn siblings!'

I started mechanically washing dishes, trying to keep myself busy. Cold water flowed over my fingers, and I hoped it would cool the fire burning inside me.

"Need help?"

Patrick's voice came from behind me. I didn't turn around, continuing to focus on washing a plate that was already clean.

"No thanks."

He walked over and stood beside me, picking up a dish towel to dry the dishes I'd washed. We stood side by side, his arm occasionally brushing against mine, each contact like an electric shock.

"Fanny." His voice was soft.

"What?" I still didn't dare look at him.

"Do you really think I was talking about Luna?"

He suddenly leaned closer, his warm breath against my ear. My hand trembled, and the plate nearly slipped.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" His hand covered mine, stopping me from continuing to wash the plate I'd already washed ten times over. "Then why are your hands shaking?"

I finally turned to face him, realizing I was trapped between him and the sink. This distance was too close—close enough that I could see the water droplets on his eyelashes, could smell the faint cologne on his skin.

"Fanny, do you think I'd say 'she means a lot to me' about a work colleague?" His hand gently brushed my cheek. "Some things are more complicated than they appear."

"Don't do this." I pushed him away, my voice choking. "I don't want to know about your love life. Whether it's Luna or anyone else, it has nothing to do with me."

"Really nothing?" He stepped back but his gaze didn't leave me. "Then what about last night..."

"Nothing happened last night!" I almost shouted, then immediately realized I was too loud and lowered my voice. "Nothing happened. We were both drunk, that's all."

Patrick stared at me for a long time, then finally nodded.

"Fine, if that's what you want to believe." His tone suddenly turned cold. "But you know what, Fanny? Running away won't solve anything."

He left the kitchen after saying that, leaving me alone and trembling.

I could hear laughter from the living room—the three of them, with Mom still excitedly discussing Patrick's mysterious girlfriend. That laughter pierced my eardrums, each sound reminding me of my own stupidity.

'I have to get out of here.'

The thought suddenly flashed through my mind. I couldn't continue like this, couldn't keep living in this painful self-deception. I needed to leave this place completely, leave Patrick, leave these suffocating emotions.

At ten o'clock that night, when the house finally quieted down, I opened my laptop and started searching for graduate programs on the East Coast. Columbia University's Creative Writing MFA, NYU's English Literature, Boston University's Journalism...

'The farther away, the better.'

I clicked on application pages, my fingers flying across the keyboard. How to write a personal statement?

"I need to escape the fact that I've fallen in love with my stepbrother"? Of course not. I had to make up something that sounded reasonable.

I continued filling out forms until late into the night. When I finally submitted my first application, tears had somehow blurred my vision without me noticing.

'I'm sorry, Patrick. This is the only way.'

I closed the laptop and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, Portland was still bright with lights, those late-night music and laughter reminding me that the world was still turning—only I was stuck in this painful moment, unable to break free.

Tomorrow I'd contact other schools and finish all the applications as soon as possible. In three months, I could leave here.

Leave this place that made me so unlike myself.

Leave Patrick.

This was better for everyone.

I told myself that, but tears still couldn't help falling.