OUTCAST: A Stepbrother Romance (9 page)

A
nd explode he did
.

W
ith a rather loud yell
, he came, his semen bursting from his manhood for what seemed like ten seconds or so.

A
nd when he was done
, he allowed his body to drop on my back. He gave me a tight hug and kissed my nape.

I
should have found
that moment sweet.

B
ut I didn’t
.

I
was thinking
of something else... something that I didn’t even anticipate when we started to make love... something that prevented me from enjoying the satisfaction I just received... something that made me forget that he was even there... something that conjured a world of fear and uncertainty that made me very anxious and afraid...

H
e came
...

A
nd he didn’t pull
out.

T
hree things happened
that Saturday which should have made me happy, but they didn’t. Well, they did... to a certain extent. But not as much as they should have. Somehow, they actually made matters even worse.

W
hen I woke
up that morning, I heard the sound of people outside our house. I put on my robe and went down to check what the commotion was all about. The first floor was empty. My dad and my stepmother weren’t there, but there were people talking outside. I proceeded to the window and took a peek. I saw three guys, holding brushes and buckets of paint, working on the facade of our home.

F
inally
, dad was able to get some help in getting rid of the vandalism that was daubed on our wall three weeks ago. I have been asking him to do something about it. It was such an eyesore. Strangers in the neighborhood would see the word “LEVA,” whatever that meant, smeared on the exterior of our residence and they’d think that we’re some kind of cult or something.

I
n due time
, he told me. At first, I thought he was just lazy, that he didn’t think of the graffiti as a big deal.
They were just kids
, our neighbor’s son told him.
What harm could they possibly do,
my father added.

E
ventually
, I realized that he was just having problems with our budget. He worked as a barber down at Bedford Avenue, for a shop that has been there since the nineteen twenties. Then, all those high end salons and big name franchises entered the scene, and people just didn’t go to barbershops anymore. He still had a fixed pay per week. But most of his earnings were from tips. If there were no patrons, there were no gratuities... and our family’s income suffered.

A
unt Susan has always been
a housewife. More than once, she suggested to find work so that she could help with the expenses. My dad shot down that idea time and time again. He loved her so much... just as how he loved my mom... that the thought of her doing some menial work pained him. He’s quite
old school
. He wanted to be a good provider, and in his mind, that meant being the sole breadwinner in the household.

H
ow he found
some extra cash for the painters outside baffled me no end. Did he have to borrow money from his brothers? Did he apply for a bank loan? Did he have to sell some stuff? If he did, were some of those stuff mine?

T
he workers were almost finished
when I saw them. I went out and they smiled at me.

“
J
ob’s done
, Ma’am!” they politely and gleefully exclaimed.

I
gazed
at the facade and it looked brand new. Amazing how a newly painted wall can make the entire house look so much different.

I
thanked them
. They packed their things and left. They didn’t ask for their payment. I guessed dad took care of it already.

I
went back
to the house and proceeded to the kitchen. I was starving. I’ve always felt very hungry in the morning the past couple of days.

I
was pleasantly surprised
to see that breakfast was ready. Bacon and omelette. Aunt Susan probably got up early to have prepared that meal before they went out.

B
ut where did they go
?

I
chomped
on the food like a raving lunatic who had fasted for months. Usually, half an omelette would’ve filled me up. My petite frame just can’t handle a lot of intake. But that morning, I finished an entire serving and I was still hungry.

I
poured
some coffee on my mug and sat on the Lazy Boy on the right side of the main door... dad’s favorite spot. He wasn’t home so I got dibs on his
personal property
. That Lazy Boy was very dear to him. It was a gift from one of his most loyal customers since the nineties, Edward Thorne. He was also one of the richest men in Sacramento. When he died in 2013, my dad was devastated.
Eddie shared a lot of great stories
, he lamented,
I’m gonna miss those and I’m gonna miss him
.

I
sat
on the ultra comfortable seat and tried to enjoy my mug of caffeine.

C
offee has always been
one of my morning rituals.

B
ut something was strangely different
.

S
omehow
, the aroma of the coffee - which I found as addictive as its taste - was quite repulsive for my smell. I thought I was coming down with a cold or something, hence, my sense of smell was compromised. But as I took a sip, I discovered that even the flavor was revolting.

W
hat was wrong with me
?

I
placed
the mug on the lamp table beside the chair. I never touched it again that day.

T
he doorbell rang
and I immediately ran towards the door. I opened it and I saw my father and Aunt Susan, holding a rather huge box - around a foot wide and a foot tall on all sides - smiling giddily at me.

“
H
ey guys
! What’s up?” I greeted them.

A
nd like tools
- a word I feel guilty to use in describing my folks, but there was no other appropriate term at that time - they just stood there, with those ridiculous looking smiles still plastered on their faces.

“
S
top it
! You’re scaring me,” I told them. “This is like a scene from
Stepford Wives
, but instead of wives, I have to deal with brainwashed parents.”

“
O
h
, you’re being overly theatrical again, Andrea,” my father retorted. “What’s wrong with being happy and smiling?”

“
M
e
? Overly theatrical?” I responded. “Coming from the guy who cried and cried until he fell asleep when Jay Leno retired? For the second time?”

“
H
ey
! I practically grew up with the guy,” he reasoned out.

“
S
o
... what’s with this
Brady Bunch
treatment all of a sudden?” I asked, puzzled by their unusually good mood. “I’m so used to the doom and gloom that pervaded this household.”

“
O
h nothing
,” my dad answered with a smirk.

“
Q
uit the delays
, Honey,” Aunt Susan finally remarked. “Here, Andrea. This is for you,” she added as she gave me the box she was holding.

“
F
or me
?” I questioned, my bewilderment heightened. “What for? It’s not my birthday. It’s not Christmas.”

“
O
pen it
,” she answered as she excitedly grabbed my father’s arm and held it tight. “You’ll see soon enough.”

A
nd so I did
.

T
he box was light
, as if it contained nothing. Its size was quite deceiving. What was inside it? Even a bunch of cotton swabs would weigh heavier.

O
nce the wrapper was off
, I pulled out the lid.

A
nd I saw it
.

A
key
.

O
ne
, solitary key.

“
W
hat’s this
?” I asked, shocked. I had an inkling... but I didn’t want to believe it. It was almost impossible anyway. I didn’t want to be disappointed.

“
A
re you blind
, girl?” my dad replied. “It’s a key.”

“
I
know it’s a key
,” I said. “But for what?”

“
W
hy don’t
you check outside, Sweetie,” Aunt Susan encouraged, fueling my suspicion - as well as my excitement - even more.

S
kittishly
, I darted out the door, towards the driveway... then I saw it...

T
he model wasn’t new
, not by a long shot. The paint job needed some work. There were noticeable scratches on the tint of the windows. The left side of the rear bumper was smashed, a testament to the driving prowess - or the lack thereof - of the previous owner.

L
ime
green and radiant under the morning sun, it wasn’t the most beautiful car in the world.

B
ut for me
, it was perfect.

I
looked at my folks
, and they were still smiling at me. I smiled back and thanked them profusely.

“
A
Ford Focus
, 2006 model,” my dad proudly exclaimed, unmindful of the fact that it was manufactured more than nine years ago.

“
D
ad
... we... we can’t afford this,” I told him worryingly. “How could we... how could we even pay for this?”

“
D
on’t worry about it
, Pumpkin,” he calmly said. “I’ve taken care of it. It’s not like we have to pay for it every month for God knows how many years.”

“
O
kay
... but how?” I continued to ask. “How were you able to afford this?”

“
D
on’t concern
yourself withsmall matters like that,” he responded. “What matters most is that my little girl is going to college in a few months, and she’ll need a car.”

“
I
’ll need a car
?” I was baffled by his statement. Why would I need a car when I don’t even know what university I will attend for college. What if I get accepted in a school at the other end of the country... like Pennsylvania or Ohio...

B
efore my dad could answer
, an elderly man garbed in a light brown polo shirt and a dark brown pair of pants, carrying a satchel that looked empty at first glance, approached us. It was Mr. Peniski, the mailman who serviced our neighborhood.

“
H
ey Alfred
,” my dad greeted him. “What brings you to our street, my friend?”

“
H
ey Jim
,” he greeted back, “long time no see. Darn internet. No one sends real mails anymore except billing companies.”

“
T
hat’s true
,” my dad chuckled. “So what have you got for us? Some bills? I just paid this month’s dues last week.”

“
N
o
,” Alfred answered. “I have an envelope here, but it doesn’t look like a bill,” he continued as he opened his satchel and grabbed what seemed like the only content inside - a large, brown envelope wrapped in plastic.

S
o
, he was in the neighborhood because he was going to deliver a mail.

T
hat got me thinking
.

T
he mailman
never delivers on a Saturday. So what brought him to our place? Somehow, his presence on our driveway made me feel something different... something thrilling in an uncanny sort of way...

H
e put on his glasses
, narrowed his eyes, scrunched his nose and read the recipient of the package.

“
A
ndrea Higgins
,” he uttered. “It’s for Andrea Higgins.”

M
y eyes widened
. A mail? For me? On a Saturday?

I
snatched
the envelope from his hands and started to run back to the house. It took me a few steps to realize how rude that may have seemed for kindly Alfred who has always been a fixture in our street since I was a toddler.

“
T
hank you
!” I yelled at him as I looked back. Then I continued to dart towards the stairs, towards my room, towards my bed.

I
threw
myself on the mattress and started to rip the plastic that covered the package. I drew out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a letter.

A
letter from UCLA
.

I
took
my time reading it.

A
statement of my name
. The usual salutation. A summary of the application procedure I have undertaken. And a sentence that would change my life...

F
or nine months
, I have wished for nothing more than to receive that letter. It would have meant the world to me. It would’ve been a guarantee... that Finn and I would attend the same school together. It would’ve been the perfect scenario... that I’d be with him and home would just be a couple of hours away.