Stepping Over the Line: A Stepbrother Novel (Shamed) (2 page)

To ensure there were no awkward aftereffects, I got the hell out of the club and state.

By morning, thanks to my own chartered flight, I was back in California where I belonged.

I peed on the pregnancy test stick, then set it on the white tile bathroom counter and waited.

It had been two months since my graduation party.

Much to my parents’ dismay, I’d spent the whole summer in my apartment. It was safer than risking another encounter with Garrett. Funny, with most tragedies, time healed. But when it came to my memories with him, the longer we were apart, the more my emptiness yawned before me like a chasm. Since we obviously could never be more to each other than what our circumstances had already dictated, I focused on my future. My residency. My relationship with Chad. And, at the moment, the move that would land me that much farther from the home I’d forever craved in my stepbrother’s forbidden hold.

Furniture and boxes had already been taken by the movers, and now, the flotsam of tomorrow’s move from Durham, North Carolina, to Boston surrounded me like trash left in a field after a summer rock fest. A shoe here, a magazine there. An ancient souvenir from my undergrad days—a Kappa Kappa Gamma Christmas formal glass with something brown and crusty on the bottom. I picked it up, filled it with hot water to soak, and then wandered into the bedroom of my barren second-story walk-up to say goodbye to the magnolia I’d woken up to almost every morning I’d been at Duke.

The test was probably done, but I couldn’t look. Not yet.

A baby at this stage of my medical career was unthinkable. Even worse, if my lack of menses, constant nausea and aching boobs did turn out to be a zygote, the paternity was up for grabs. Odds were, the baby would be Chad’s. Had to be. Because if it turned out to be Garrett’s, I wasn’t sure I’d survive the disgrace.

Those brief, torrid minutes with him in the pro shop had been the culmination of over a decade’s yearning, lusting, and self-loathing. How could I be attracted to my brother? It was sick. Sure, Garrett wasn’t my real brother—we weren’t in any way blood-related—but society had forged the connection that long-ago defined our relationship’s acceptable boundaries, and screwing in the golf club’s pro shop definitely crossed a line. A hauntingly beautiful line composed of a hundred tightly-woven love sonnets tucked deep in my secret heart. I loved Garrett. Had always loved Garrett. But in much the same way I’d always adored Prince William or Matthew McConaughey, common sense told me my stepbrother could no more be mine than a member of either Great Britain’s or Hollywood’s royalty could.

The apartment’s door creaked open. “Van? You here?”

Shit. Chad wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour.

“You’re early.” I fairly burst from the bedroom to reach the hall bathroom. Not for the first time, I wished I’d opted for a more modern building with an en suite, but I’d always had a thing for old people, buildings, and things. Maybe I was an old soul. Maybe I just liked the patina of antique silver.

“I’ve gotta piss like a racehorse.” He cut me off at the pass, veering into the bathroom just before me.

On the off chance he wouldn’t notice the pregnancy test on the otherwise empty white tile counter, I darted in after him, planning to snatch it up before he could see it.

“What the…” He had his right hand on his fly’s zipper. With his left, he pointed. “Are you?”

I closed my eyes. Apparently, I was. I am. The news I’d all-along suspected was devastating, yet at the same time, oddly calming. A diagnosis for my symptoms. A reason for my constant malaise. A primal link between me and this great big world.

“Holy shit…” He came to me, wrapping me in a warm hug that more than made up for our last argument. He had a perilously short fuse. “Babe…let’s get married. We’ll find a justice of the peace, and—”

“Slow down,” I said against his chest. “I just found out I’m pregnant. I need a moment to catch my breath.”

“Sure. Right.” He kissed my forehead, then let me go. In that instant, I felt adrift. And cold. “Let me take my piss, then we’ll celebrate. I’ll call a few friends, and we’ll head to the Buck—no, too smoky. Let’s do Proud Mary’s. It’s got that great patio.”

“I’d really rather finish up around here and get on the road.”

“Are you kidding me? You can’t tell a guy he’s going to be a dad, then expect him to go into hibernation. This is great news, babe. I wanna shout from rooftops and hand out cigars.”

“I can’t be more than eight weeks. Isn’t this all a bit premature? Shouldn’t we keep it to ourselves until I’m further along?”

“Hell, no. If you want to stay behind in this shithole, be my guest, but I’m partying. It’s not every day you become a father. I’ve even got the perfect names—Chadwick for a boy and Chadellina for a girl. Done and done. Right?”

I closed my eyes again. Chad was a blend of spoiled-rich kid and frat guy. He had his sweet moments, and knew how to behave in polite company. He was smart, handsome, had more money in checking than God, and was even better connected than my stepfather, which was saying something. In Jackson, Mississippi, his family was royalty. By every standard my mother had carefully set, Chadwick William Ridgemont IV was a catch. So why wasn’t I happier about having him in my proverbial basket?

Simple. He’s not Garrett.

I squashed that thought like a big, fat southern roach.

Garrett had nothing to do with any of this. We’d only been together that one time.

Chad and I had boinked like bunnies the rest of that weekend.

But only because you’d been trying to erase the feel of Garrett inside you.

Nope. I belonged with Chad. I was carrying his son or daughter and I loved him. Granted, our love was no great passion, but given time, it would be comforting and satisfying and enough to make me forget my unhealthy obsession over Garrett.

“Yes, we should get married.” I plucked up the accusing pregnancy test and carried it to the big black trash bag in the kitchen.

“Tonight?” He flushed the commode, then joined me.

“No. But soon. Our mothers would kill us if we denied them a proper southern affair. How about if we go ahead and party tonight, get our apartment set up in Boston, then head back to Mississippi for our wedding? No one needs to know we’re expecting—just that we’re so in love we want to get married before starting our residencies.”

After making a silly, throaty growl, he settled his hands low on my hips. “Mmm…I always knew you were crazy about me. Sounds like a plan. You call your friends, I’ll call mine, and tonight, we’ll celebrate all of our great news.”

Perfect. But first, I had to make a brief stop in the bathroom to throw up.

The fact that I had been summoned for a return trek to Julep so soon after my last didn’t bode well for my peace of mind. Dad had been quite cryptic on the phone.

Come down for the weekend, Son. We’ve got big news—huge.

So now I once again sat in the club, only this time, at a table set for twenty-two in the private dining room as opposed to the bar. White linens had been paired with lilies and the flowers’ cloying sweetness clawed at my throat. A string quartet played on the veranda just outside open french doors. On the rolling golf course, fireflies hovered above hole one’s manicured perfection. The sun had set. Twilight transformed old faces to glowing and young to dewy. Candlelight reflected off crystal stemware, silver flatware, serving platters, and candlesticks that had all been in continuous use since before the War of Northern Aggression.

Savannah and Chad flanked my father at the table’s head. Then came my stepmom, Delilah; Chad’s parents, Theo and Suzette; his older brother, Canton—all Jackson, Mississippi, lawyers—and lining the bride and groom’s respective sides of the table sat an A, B, C, D, E, and F assortment of Savannah’s sorority sisters and Chad’s frat bros. Delilah told me in confidence that Theo went by his middle name on account of there being too much confusion between his father, grandfather, and him. Out of my great respect for her, I’d refrained from telling her I didn’t fucking care.

Rocket science had never been my forte, but it didn’t take book smarts to guess Dad’s big surprise.

The sole woman I’d ever had the slightest interest in obtaining was on the verge of announcing her engagement to a man I didn’t know—didn’t care to know—and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

Scarlett O’Haras were the night’s assigned cocktail.

I discreetly asked the waiter for a neat scotch.

The meal began with polite chatter and, according to the embossed menu at each place setting,
Jumbo Lump Crabmeat Remick.

Sorority Sister A leaned too far into my comfort zone. “Savannah tells me you’re a close personal friend of Liam and Ella Stone. Is it true Liam bought her a South American country for her birthday?”

Though my natural inclination was to growl at the ridiculous question, I instead downed the remains of my scotch and signaled the waiter for another. “Absolutely true,” I said. “He wants to be king and make Ella a queen, so he’s restructuring the entire government—replacing democracy with monarchy, putting photos of family and friends on all currency. I’m handling the legalities. You’d be amazed at the complexities.”

“Gracious…”
Her blue eyes widened. “What country did he buy?”

“Keep this between us…” My drink arrived. I downed it in a single gulp. “But Liam now owns Venezuela.”

“What?”
She graced me with a not-very-ladylike gape. “He’s got
that
much money?”

“More than Bill Gates or God.”

“And you’re a
close
friend?”

“Absolutely. My handsome mug will be on his country’s twenties. But personally, I’ve got my real estate agent looking into buying Brazil.” I winked. “I’m a big fan of topless beaches.”

She cupped her hand on my thigh. “I’m not sure we were formally introduced. My name is Constance, and…” She zoomed in, whispering the rest of her speech directly into my ear. “I give
great
head.”

Her statement was so absurd that during the lull in between
Louisiana Drum Meunière
and
Bananas Foster,
I slipped her into the deserted pro shop so she could prove her claim.

Not bad, but I’d had better.

The whole time she worked me, being the ass I am, I closed my eyes and saw Savannah. I smelled her perfume. Vanilla, jasmine, and the ocean. I craved a replay of our lone, forbidden night the way a fat kid craves Twinkies.

We returned to the dining room just in time to see Dad stand, then clank his fork against one of the champagne flutes the waiters had distributed.

I signaled for more scotch.

Dad said, “I can’t thank all of you enough for being here. Delilah and I planned for this announcement to be a big surprise, but I’m guessing by now, that ol’ cat has jumped clean out of his bag.”

Laughter. Applause.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. Too much scotch. Too much rich food. Too much of seeing Chad fawning all over my stepsister.

“But I digress. I’m not sure there’s a thing in this great big world that could make my heart happier than seeing my girl smile. Her mother and I dreamed of this night, and honestly, if we’d been given a catalogue of potential prospects, I doubt we’d have found a young man even half as suitable for our Savannah as Chad is.”

Whistles accompanied applause from the groom’s portion of the party. Chad’s mother daubed the corners of her eyes with a monogrammed white handkerchief.

“I had a formal speech written about how much pride fathers feel for their daughters, but damned if I didn’t spill my first drink on it, so honey…” With tears shining in his eyes, Dad took Savannah’s hand. “Let me just say I love you, and your mother and I think you did a real good job of picking your man.”

“Aw, thank you, Daddy.” Savannah rose from her seat to give my father, and then her mother, a hug.

Chad and his parents joined in on the lovefest with plenty of hugs, backslapping, and handshakes. And then the future groom slipped a rock the size of Gibraltar onto Savannah’s ring finger and I had to leave the room.

I wandered into the bar.

For a July Friday night, the place was relatively dead. Golf played on all five muted TVs. A golden oldies band butchered “Peggy Sue.” Four old geezers sat at the bar and three couples spun each other on the dance floor. Three more couples sat at a corner table drinking and swapping stories. The scene was quite ordinary. So why did my pulse race as if instead of witnessing an engagement announcement, I’d seen the dropping of a nuclear bomb? Why did my head and heart and stomach ache? Why was my mouth dry and stomach queasy?

Why, with every fiber of my being, did I want to tear back into that dining room, scoop Savannah into my arms, and then run off somewhere crazy—like fuck, I don’t know, Switzerland or Australia? I’d take her anywhere in the world that wasn’t Julep, Mississippi. Where no one thought we were brother and sister, because technically we weren’t.

“I wondered where you’d run off to.” Constance had found me. “I got lonely. Wanna head back to my B & B for a private celebration?”

No.
“Sure. Got a car?”

She jingled her keys.

I woke the next morning with a headache and regret.

Delilah had booked the bridesmaids at the Magnolia Inn, which was an antebellum B & B with far too thin walls and ridiculously easy-to-pick locks that literally
any
key would open—a fact Savannah and I had discovered one Christmas break when Dad had rented the whole place for his top employees and my usual saint of a stepsister and I had sampled treats from every minibar. At the tender age of seventeen, scotch had already been my sin of choice. She’d gone for cold Snickers.

Even though I was alone in the bed, plenty of feminine laughs and chatter invaded my privacy from behind the room’s closed door.

I stretched in the canopy bed, then eased out from beneath too many covers into too hot air. Why was it that no matter how much money was thrown at these historical restoration projects, no one ever got the central heating and air right?

Sunshine shone through lace-panel curtains. The resulting filigree on the wood floor made my eyes hurt almost as badly as my head. I needed a shower and coffee—neither of which I cared to find here. I dressed in last night’s clothes, then headed into the thankfully empty hall.

I’d made this particular walk of shame during three other pre-wedding events and one post-wedding one. What can I say? Kinda like my work pal Carol’s former man-whore, Nathan, weddings bring out my inner player.

Downstairs, I slipped out the back door into an already steamy morning.

Julep was too small of a burg for Uber or Lyft, so I called the one person I knew who wouldn’t give me shit about a one-night stand.

Ten minutes later, Savannah rolled up to the corner behind the wheel of her mom’s gold Jag.

I climbed in and cranked the A/C, aiming the vent at my face.

“Really?” She hit the gas, throwing me back in the leather seat. “You’re such a pig.”

“Love you, too,
Sis.
” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

“Screw you.”

“Already had the pleasure.”

“When my friends you sleep with and never even call again tell me you’re a bastard, I defend you, but I’m done.” She turned too sharply, jolting me from my attempted slumber.

“And?”

“Never mind. You screwed Constance, didn’t you?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Of all of my bridesmaids, why’d you have to pick her? She’s got the fluffy heart of a baby bunny.”

I snorted. “And a mouth big enough for my hard lion.”

“You’re evil.” I opened my eyes in time to see her veer into the cypress-lined parking lot of McKinney’s Drugs. She parked, then snapped, “Wait in the car. You’re the last person I want to be seen with.”

“Aye-aye, Dr. Savannah.” I saluted her.

She flipped me the bird.

Five minutes later, I was answering an email from Liam on the legalities of acquiring a Taiwanese electronics manufacturer when Savannah climbed back into the car, and tore into a roll of Tums.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine.” She popped two tablets into her mouth and chewed.

“You look like shit.” Of course, she didn’t—even at her worst, she took my breath away, but dark circles beneath her eyes made her appear gaunt.

“And you’re an ass.” She started the car, backed out of the parking space, then gunned it toward our parents’.

“Being a bastard is part of my charm.”

“Please, Garrett.” She stopped for a red light, and pressed her hands to her forehead. “I can’t deal with sarcastic you—not today.”

“What’s wrong?” I angled to face her. As if she was on the verge of tears, her green eyes shone. For a soon-to-be-blushing bride, she looked anything but happy.

“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s me. We used to tell each other everything.”

“Those days are long gone.” The light changed, and she moved the car forward.

Our relationship rolled backward.

“They don’t have to be,” I said. Sure, we could never be what my secret heart had always wanted, but the thought of not at least having her as a friend was intolerable. “Savvy…” I reached for her hand, but then drew back. “Let me in. Maybe I can help? Did you and Chad have a fight?”

“No.” She sniffed, brushing away silent tears with the back of her hand while swerving around two moms with baby strollers. “Chad’s wonderful. I love him with all my heart. I just don’t feel well, okay? And Mom’s gone more than a little wedding-crazy. We’re having teas and luncheons and showers. It’s all too much. I wanted something quiet. Just a small church ceremony with family and friends. A punch and cake reception at the club.”

“Want me to talk to her?”

She shot me a narrow-eyed glare. “Who are you, and what have you done with my prick of a brother?”

Don’t call me that,
I wanted to rail. How many times had I wished our parents had never married? But if that had been the case, maybe I never would have met her. If having her as my stepsister was the best I could do, I’d take it.

“Seriously, G, this sudden nice guy routine doesn’t suit you. Makes me suspicious—like you’re pulling one of your sharklike lawyer moves to set me up for a fall.” She pulled into our family home’s circle drive and pressed the garage door remote.

“Knock it off. I would never hurt you, and you know it.”

Her pinched expression told a different story.

Did she think about our night together? Did she remember how incredible we’d felt? The way, for those all-too-few intense moments, the world had stopped?

“Take a shower,” she said before climbing out of the car. “You smell like an ashtray that got left in a brewery.”

Don’t go,
I wanted to say.
Let’s do brunch. Tell me about your residency and dreams for the future and what it felt like the first time you saved a patient’s life.

Of course, I didn’t say any of that, and she shut her car door and entered the house.

I sat utterly still, staring at the blank garage wall.

If we hadn’t had sex, would we not feel like strangers now? Was she pissed at me for ruining things between us? Or was I flattering myself to think I was even on her radar?