Stepbrother Dearest (21 page)

things.” I walked back around to the driver’s side.

“Greta…don’t leave like this.”

“I’m not the one leaving.”

I closed the door, turned the ignition and drove away. I only looked in the rearview mirror once and

saw Elec standing in the same spot. Maybe my reaction was unfair, but if he was being honest with his

feelings, then so was I.

All I could think about on the drive home was how life could be cruel. The “one that got away” was

supposed to
stay
away, not come back and leave you all over again.

When I pulled into my driveway, I noticed an envelope on the passenger seat. It was the one thousand

dollars cash I’d given him. That meant any money we’d spent last night was his. There was a note inside.

I just didn’t want you to gamble it. I could never repay you for everything you’ve given me, let alone

take money from you.

***

Two months after Elec returned to California, I was finally getting back to a regular routine in New

York.

My mother had come to stay with me for the first month after Randy’s death but decided that she wasn’t

happy living away from Boston. With Greg and Clara looking out for her and my visiting every other

weekend, she was adjusting as well as could be to her new normal.

Elec and I hadn’t contacted each other at all. It was a little bit of a let down to not have received even a text, especially after how we left things, but I wasn’t going to be the first to make contact. For all I knew, I’d never hear from him again.

Thoughts of him still consumed me everyday. I’d wonder if he had asked Chelsea to marry him. I’d

wonder whether he was thinking of me. I’d wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to my own

room the last night we were together. So, even though I was back to my home base, my mind was

constantly elsewhere.

My life in Manhattan was pretty predictable. I worked long days at the office and got home around eight

each night. If I didn’t go out for drinks with my co-workers, I’d spend the weeknights reading until I fell

asleep with my kindle on my face.

On Friday nights, my neighbor Sully and I would have dinner and drinks at Charlie’s, the pub

underneath my apartment. Most women in their mid-twenties would spend their Friday nights with a

boyfriend or a group of women their own age. Instead, I chose to spend it with a 70-year-old transvestite.

Sully was a petite Asian man who dressed as a woman and in fact, I assumed he
was
a woman until one

night a pair of spandex revealed some disproportionately massive junk. I sometimes thought of Sully as a

he
, other times, as a
she
. It didn’t make a difference because by the time I figured “it” out, I’d already fallen in love with her as a person, and it didn’t matter what gender she was.

Sully was never married, had no kids and was extremely protective of me. Any time a guy would walk

into Charlie’s, I’d turn to Sully and say jokingly, “What about him?”

The answer was always the same. “Not good enough for my Greta…but I’d do him.” Then, we’d just

have a good laugh.

I’d always been hesitant to talk to Sully about Elec because I was seriously afraid she’d want to hunt

him down and kick his ass. One particular Friday night, though, after one too many margaritas, I finally

divulged the entire story from start to finish.

“Now, I understand,” Sully said.

“Understand what?”

“Why you’re here with me every Friday night and not on a date with some man, why you’ve been

unable to open your heart to anyone. It belongs to someone else.”

“It used to. Now, it’s just broken. How do I fix it?”

“Sometimes, we can’t.”

Sully stared off, and I suspected she was speaking from experience.

“The trick is to force yourself to open it even though it’s broken. A broken heart is still a beating one.

And there are many men who I’m sure would like an opportunity to try to fix yours if you’d let them.” She

continued, “I’ll tell you one thing, though.”

“What?”

“This…Alec?”

“Elec…with an e.”

“Elec. He’s lucky I won’t set foot on a plane. I’d set his balls on fire.”

“I knew you’d feel this way. That’s why I was afraid to tell you.”

“And I don’t know who this Kelsey is…”

“Chelsea…”

“Whatever. There is no way she’s better than my Greta, more beautiful or with a bigger heart. He’s a

fool.”

“Thank you.”

“Someday, he’ll realize he made a big mistake. He’ll show up here, you’ll be long gone, and the only

bitch greeting him will be me.”

***

That weekend, I felt better for the first time since Elec left. Even though it didn’t really change anything, Sully’s words of encouragement had helped bring me out of my funk a little.

On Sunday, I’d finally gotten around to replacing my winter clothes with summer outfits. I’d always put

off the wardrobe changeover until it was almost too late when half the summer was already over. I spent

the entire day doing laundry, purging items to donate and neatly organizing my drawers. The weather was

dry and warm, and the windows in my apartment stayed open.

I decided I deserved a glass of Moscato wine after my long day of housework. I sat on the balcony and

stared out at the street below. There was a gentle summer breeze as the sun started to go down; it was such a perfect evening.

I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood: traffic, people yelling, children

playing in the small courtyard across from me. The smell of barbecuing meat trickled over to me from an

adjacent balcony. It reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day, which explained why the wine had

already hit me so fast.

I told myself that I loved my independence: being able to do whatever I wanted, go wherever I wanted,

eat whatever and whenever I wanted, but deep down, I longed to share my life with someone.

My thoughts always seemed to travel back to him no matter how hard I tried. What I didn’t expect on

this quiet summer night was reciprocation.

When my text alert sounded, I didn’t immediately check it. I was sure it was Sully inviting me over to

watch something on television or my mother checking in.

My heart started beating out of control when I saw his name. I didn’t have the courage to immediately

read the text because no matter what, I knew it was going to disrupt the calm mood of this night. I didn’t

know why I was so scared. It wasn’t like things with Elec could have gotten any worse, unless of course he

was contacting me to formally announce his engagement, which would have devastated me.

I breathed in, finished off my wine in one long gulp then counted to ten before looking down at the

message.

I want you to read it.

One simple sentence, and any small progress I’d made this weekend in trying to forget him went down

the tubes. My hand was shaking as I pondered a response.

He wanted me to read the autobiography he was working on. Why now? Of all the things he could have

said, this was the last thing I expected.

The thought of finding out everything I’d always wondered about was absolutely exciting and terrifying

all at once—mostly terrifying. Even though I was certain there were parts that would upset me, I already

knew what my reply to him would be. How could I have said no?

I would love to read it.

Elec: I know this is out of left field, especially after how we left things.

His response had been immediate as if he were waiting for my answer.

Greta: I certainly wasn’t expecting this.

Elec: I don’t trust anyone else to read it. I need it to be you.

Greta: How will you send it to me?

Elec: I can email it to you tonight.

Tonight? I knew then and there that I’d definitely be calling out of work tomorrow. There was no way I

would be able to stop reading once I started. What was I getting myself into?

Greta: Okay.

Elec: It’s not finished, but it’s pretty long.

Greta: I’ll check my email in a bit for it.

Elec: Thank you.

Greta: You’re welcome.

I poured the rest of the bottle into my glass and couldn’t inhale the night air deeply enough. The smell

of the neighbor’s previously appetizing barbecue was now making me sick.

I climbed off the balcony and into my bedroom through the window. Opening my laptop, I anxiously

typed in my email password too fast, having to try it several times before it went through correctly.

There in bold right at the top was a new email from Elec O’Rourke. The subject simply was
My Book
.

There was no message in the body of the email, just a Word document attached. I immediately converted it

to another format so that I could read it on my kindle.

I knew that this story was going to devastate me. There were going to be revelations that would explain

Randy and Elec’s behavior toward each other.

What I wasn’t expecting was to be completely gutted by the very first sentence.

***

Prologue: The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far

I am my brother’s bastard child.

Confused yet?

Imagine how I felt when that bomb was dropped on me.

From the time I was fourteen, though, that revelation has defined me.

My miserable childhood would have made a hell of a lot more sense if I had become privy to that

minor detail sooner.

The secret was never supposed to come out. The plan was to have me believe that the man who

degraded me for as long as I could comprehend words was my father.

When he left my mother for another woman, Mami would eventually have a nervous breakdown and

spill the truth one night about how I actually came to be. Once she’d divulged all of the sickening details,
I couldn’t figure out who was worse: the man I always believed was my father or the sperm donor I never

had a chance to meet.

The fucked up story of my life actually began over 25 years ago in Ecuador. That was where a U.S.

businessman who emigrated from Ireland, Patrick O’Rourke, spotted a beautiful teenage girl selling her

artwork on the street.

Her name was Pilar Solis. Patrick always had a penchant for art and beautiful women, so he was

instantly mesmerized. With her exotic beauty and extreme talent, she was unlike anyone he’d ever come

across.

But she was young, and he was leaving soon. That didn’t stop him from going after what he wanted.

Patrick was a higher-up at a U.S. coffee powerhouse. They’d tasked him with overseeing the purchase

of some crops outside of Quito.

The only thing Patrick had been overseeing was Pilar.

He’d visit her street cart every morning and bought a painting each day until eventually, he’d

purchased them all. Pilar’s paintings were a main source of income for her large, impoverished family. All
of the images depicted intricate stained-glass windows painted from memory.

Patrick became obsessed—more with the girl than her art. His trip was supposed to have only lasted

three weeks, but he extended it to six.

Unbeknownst to Pilar, Patrick wasn’t going home unless he could take her with him.

Even though she was under 18, he located her parents and began to court her with their approval.

He’d given them money and purchased gifts for every member of the Solis family.

He spoke to her father about the possibility of taking her back to the U.S. with him where he could

take her under his wing, put her through school and help her build a real art career. The family was

desperate for one of their own to have that kind of opportunity. They eventually agreed to let her go to
America with Patrick.

Pilar was captivated and scared of the older man all at once. She felt an obligation to go along with

him despite her trepidation. He was handsome, charismatic and controlling.

After moving Pilar to the states, Patrick kept to his word. He married her when she turned 18 to

facilitate her being able to stay in the U.S., enrolled her in art school in addition to English classes and
used his connections to get her artwork into some Bay area galleries. The one catch went without saying:
Pilar was his. He owned her.

What she didn’t realize was that Patrick had a family—an estranged ex-wife who’d just moved back

into town with their son.

One afternoon, Pilar was painting in the room Patrick built for that very purpose. A strapping young

man wearing nothing but jeans who looked about her age appeared at the doorway. Pilar had no idea

who he was, just that her body instantly reacted to him. He was a younger, more handsome version of her

husband. She was shocked to find out that Patrick had a son and that he would be staying at the house for
the summer.

Every afternoon while Patrick was at work, his son, Randy, would sit and watch Pilar paint. It started

out as something innocent. She’d tell him stories about Ecuador, he’d introduce her to the latest music

and American pop culture—things Patrick couldn’t relate to at 20 years their senior.

Soon, Pilar found herself completely smitten and in love for the first time in her life. Randy, who