My stepbrother

The cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of the guest room felt like a temporary wall between Cathy and the rest of the house. She sat on the edge of the mattress, her hands resting on her knees, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking silverware coming from downstairs. Her mother had married David three weeks ago, but today was the first day Cathy was officially living under this roof.

She smoothed the fabric of her jeans, took a deep breath, and stood up. The hallway was wide, floorboards polished to a mirror shine, leading toward a staircase that felt too grand for her. As she descended, the smell of roasted garlic and expensive wine grew stronger.

In the kitchen, her mother was leaning against the marble island, a glass of red wine in her hand. David stood beside her, his arm draped comfortably around her waist. They looked like a photograph from a luxury real estate magazine.

"Cathy, there you are," David said, offering a warm, practiced smile. "We were just about to start. Michael is out on the patio with Iris."

"I'll go tell them," Cathy said. Her voice felt thin in the high-ceilinged room.

She walked toward the sliding glass doors. Outside, the evening air was still warm, the sun dipping low enough to turn the pool water into a sheet of hammered gold. Michael was slumped in a wicker chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, his dark hair messy from the wind. Iris sat on the edge of the table next to him, swinging her legs, her bright blonde hair tucked behind one ear.

As Cathy stepped onto the patio, Michael’s head turned. He didn't look away when their eyes met. He didn't offer a polite, distant smile either. He simply watched her approach, his expression unreadable but intense.

"Dinner is ready," Cathy said, stopping a few feet away.

"We heard," Iris chirped, jumping down from the table. She walked over to Cathy, her eyes scanning Cathy’s face with a directness that made Cathy want to step back. "You’re finally moved in. The quiet girl in the big house. Do you like your room? It used to be a storage space, but David had it gutted last year."

"It’s nice," Cathy replied. "Thank you."

"Michael thinks you’re going to be a ghost in this house," Iris said, tilting her head. "He said you look like the type who hides in corners. Do you hide in corners, Cathy?"

Cathy glanced at Michael. He was still sitting, his gaze fixed on her. He didn't deny what Iris said; he just let the silence stretch out between them.

"I just like my privacy," Cathy said.

Michael stood up then. He was taller than he looked while sitting, and as he walked past Cathy to head inside, his shoulder brushed against hers. He didn't apologize. He didn't even flinch. He just kept walking, leaving a trail of cedarwood and cold air in his wake.

The dining table was set for five. Cathy took the seat opposite Michael, trying to focus on the salad in front of her. The conversation flowed easily between the adults—talk of the honeymoon in Italy, David’s firm, the upcoming semester at the university. Cathy felt like an observer watching a play she hadn't rehearsed for.

"So, Cathy," Michael said suddenly. The table went quiet. He was leaning back in his chair, twirling a fork between his fingers. "My dad says you’re in your junior year In college. What’s the major again?"

"English Literature," Cathy said.

"Sounds quiet," Michael remarked. "Lots of reading in the dark?"

"It requires focus to read in the dark yunno," she corrected him.

"I bet you’re very focused," Michael said. He took a slow sip of his water, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the glass. "I’ve seen you through the window the last few days when you were moving stuff. You don't look around much. You just keep your head down and work."

"I didn't realize you were watching me," Cathy said, her pulse quickening.

"Hard not to notice a new person in the driveway," Michael replied.

Iris reached over and grabbed Michael’s hand, interlacing her fingers with his. "He’s a watcher, Cathy. You have to be careful with Michael. He notices things people want to keep hidden. Don’t you, babe?"

Michael didn't look at Iris. He kept his eyes on Cathy. "I notice what’s right in front of me."

"Well, I think it’s lovely," Cathy’s mother interrupted, sensing a ripple she didn't quite understand. "It’s good for you two to get to know each other. You’re practically siblings now."

The word 'siblings' felt heavy and wrong in the room. Cathy looked down at her plate, the silver fork trembling slightly in her hand. Across the table, she could feel Michael’s presence like a physical weight.

After dinner, the house settled into a low hum. Her mother and David retreated to the study, and Iris had gone home, leaving a lingering scent of sweet perfume in the foyer. Cathy went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, thinking the floor was empty.

The lights were dimmed to a soft amber. She reached for a glass in the cabinet when she realized she wasn't alone. Michael was standing by the refrigerator, a bottle of beer in his hand. He wasn't drinking it; he was just standing there, staring out the window at the dark backyard.

Cathy froze for a second, then continued reaching for the glass. She filled it at the tap, the sound of running water loud in the stillness.

"You don't have to be so tense around me yunno,," Michael said. He hadn't moved, but his voice carried clearly across the kitchen.

"I'm not tense, I just" Cathy lied as her breathe hinged, she felt a little dampness on her panties, which she wasn't supposed to feel for him but she couldn't help, she held her sweater tightly as she tries to control herself

"Your shoulders are up to your ears," he said, finally turning around. He leaned against the counter, crossing his ankles. "And you hold your breath when I walk into a room. I can hear it."

"You’re imagining things, Michael."

"Am I?" He took a step toward her. He didn't stop until he was within her personal space, the heat from his body radiating toward her. "Iris thinks you’re a mystery. She likes mysteries. She wants to take you shopping, get you out of those oversized sweaters."

"I like my sweaters," Cathy said, her back pressing against the edge of the sink.

Michael reached out. For a moment, Cathy thought he was going to touch her face, but his hand stopped at the collar of her sweater. He gripped the wool between two fingers, tugging it slightly.