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This guy sitting across from you was not your brother.
The kid he was holding you didn't even know the name of, and you weren't sure of the name of this apartment complex or the street you were on. Firstly because this place was new, and secondly, you were just a tad sauced.
This night had begun like so many others, in your moms car on the way to wherever she’d dreamed acceptable enough to leave you despite you being able to take care of Rose all by yourself. You'd sat in the back of the car on the way here, telling your mother you wanted to sit by Rose, your younger sister, but really you just wanted to sneak drinks from your flask. Rose couldn't see if you turned your head just right. If your mom noticed she didn't say anything. She was a bit tipsy herself and definitely should not have been driving.
When you arrived here, your mother parked the car and another car rolled up next to you. The windows were rolled down and there was a baby crying in the back seat. It was an older car, a black mustang by the emblem, and a considerable downgrade from the silver Impala you ride in.
"Bro, I-" started the guy in the front seat, he was around your age.
"Get out!" The man driving barked, and the kid looked shaken just from words. It made you nostalgic for a simpler time when your mother yelling at you still worked. Anyways, he got out of the car. He collected his kid brother from the back seat and no sooner had the back door shut did your mother slide into the passenger seat and the car took off again. You exchanged glances with the boy and he proceeded to let you into his apartment.
His tiny apartment was nearly as dirty as his wrinkled shirt. Pizza boxes covered the counters, beer cans and pop bottles littered the floor. Dirty clothes were everywhere and the carpet had never seen a vacuum. You were relieved when he'd told you that you could keep your shoes on. He cleared you off a spot on the couch and he himself sat in a nearby chair. Your name is Roxy Lalonde and the guy sitting in front of you is not your brother, at least you don’t think so.
He had introduced himself as Dirk Strider. His clothes were disgusting and his orange high tops were ruined, but his blonde hair was clean and his face was clear of blemishes. You can't see his eyes behind those shitty triangle shaped shades, but you'd bet they're the same color yours are. You didn't mention it, but his face was shaped pretty similarly to yours too.
"Parents, right?" You laughed nervously.
"Sure," he replied with his thick southern accent and he doesn't say anything else. Seriously? Where is this guy from?
Your mom had been out with his dad a couple times. You were fairly sure he was Rose's dad too, but you never asked. When your mom wasn't passed out drunk or currently drunk, you tried to make the best of the time you shared. The last time this guy had been around was before Rose was born, and with the revolving door of boyfriends your mom kept you didn't think you'd see him back.
You thought wrong.
"Roxy?" Rose's small voice asked, her hand tugging on your sleeve.
"Yes darlin'?" You reply, smiling down at her.
"How long?" The six year old asks. She means how long until your mother returns to get you.
"I dunno, Rosie," you tell her, "but don't worry, she's coming back."
"I uh, think they were going to a bar," Dirk offers, "it may be a while."
That's not reassuring. That's not what Rose needs to hear. If you spend the night here so be it but Rose is young, she doesn't understand.
"Right, sure," you agree, "but I promise she's coming back."
The kid sitting on Dirk's lap is shy, but after some prodding from his older brother, he finally gets down, smooths out his red t-shirt and ambles over to Rose. He's probably her age. They could be twins.
"Dave," he offers, and holds out a hand to give Rose a fistbump.
"Rose," your sister replies, and leaves him hanging.
"Wanna go watch videos?" He asks. “I have an iPad.”
Rose looks behind her, at you, for reassurance and permission. You nod and she smilies, and the pair go trotting off together. As soon as they're out of sight you pull your flask out of your bra and take a long, hard swig. So maybe all four of you have the same dad. That's plausible, isn't it? Sure it is. Any plausible reason is reason enough to drink. Hell, implausible reasons were even better.
"Do you, uh, want a beer?" Dirk asks.
"He lets you drink?" You ask, your throat raw from the liquid fire you'd just swallowed.
"He doesn't care," Dirk replies and yeah, you can relate.
Dirk gets up and goes to the refrigerator. When he opens it you can see the only thing inside it is beer. He pops the cap for you and brings it to you. You thank him. This is really strange and awkward and he's making it worse. You can't tell what he's looking at behind those shades but you think it might be you. You take a sip of the beer he brought you and rub your arm nervously. You feel bad for this guy.
It's not the vodka in the flask talking or the beer in the bottle, you honest to god feel bad for this guy. He more than looks like you, he kind of is you. Your willing to bet your sweet ass that he was stuck taking care of Dave just like you were stuck with Rose. If you didn't take care of Rose nobody else would. You felt bad for Dave too.
"I swiped twenty bucks from her wallet," you say, "wanna get Chinese?"
"Dave won't eat Chinese," he says, his tone neutral, "would you mind pizza instead?"
"If you're not sick of it, sure, shades," you say, laughing a little at the nickname you'd given him. He doesn't respond, only gets up and orders the food. He returns to his spot when he finishes and you both resume the awkward stare down.
"You got a real mess on your hands here in this apartment," you say, and maybe it's too forward but you're too sloshed to care, "it must be hard to keep this place clean."
Dirk says nothing.
"Want me to teach you to run a washing machine?" You offer.
"There isn't one," he replies.
"Not even downstairs?" You ask.
"I don't know," he says, looking down. You decide to stop talking and do something about this shit because God damn it's ridiculous in here. The kitchen is where you start because you assume you're going to be eating there. The trash is overflowing and there aren't any garbage bags, so you use the next best thing, plastic shopping bags.
"You don't have to do this," he says pointedly, like it's bothering him.
"I wanna sit down with a table to eat at, yeah?" You reply and there are no sting to your words. "You wanna get on those dishes so we got plates?"
It was like that never dawned on him, because he came out to join you in the kitchen and turned the faucet on next. They had a full bottle of unused dish soap, surprisingly. It was probably old, older than the expired chips you were shoving in to this bag, but soap didn't go bad lucky for you.
By the time the Pizza man came, you guys even had cups to drink out of. You traded you booze for warm orange soda while Rose ate, but as soon as dinner was finished and the kids went back in the other room you pulled it back out again. Rose had enough distaste for when your mother drank. She didn't need to see you do it too.
"Hey, Dirky," you slur, "is that an Xbox?"
"Yeah," he replies, again with the one word answers.
"Wanna pay, er, play?" Your words step all over themselves but your message is understood.
"Yeah," he repeats, and before he can move, you stumble over a towel on your way to the case holding DVDs and video games. There are several hundred titles in front of you, and you sort of aren't sure which are games and which aren't, but finally you spot a familiar title. Not one of your own favorites, per say, but your best friend Jane has it. Dirk happens to have two controllers.
Needless to say, you kick his ass. The thing about you and video games is you have pretty damn good hand eye coordination. Even if you’re shit at the actual game you catch on fast and start gaining points like nobody’s business. After about an hour and the rest of your beer, the game starts to lose its luster in favor of the guy you’re playing it with.
He’s kind of cute. You like the way his face is shaped, actually. You like it enough you’d like to trace your fingers along his jaw. You don’t really do boyfriends, you’re trying to get into a good college so you can get out of this situation with your mom and you don’t have time if you are gunning for a full ride. What you’re going to do with Rose has yet to be decided. But that sort of doesn’t matter right now because that’s still a few years away and this is right now. And your maybe brother is pausing the game to look your way.
You kiss him. You kiss him hard and grab the front of his dirty shirt to hold him there. You sort of expect him to push you off and like, tell you girls have cooties by the way he tenses up, but he relaxes faster than you can shoot a tequila shot. The way he kisses back gives away how inexperienced he is, like a wet marshmallow, but that’s okay. You sort of like that about him.
“We’re probably brother and sister,” he pants once you pull away.
“And I’m drunk,” you laugh. You aren’t that drunk.
It takes him a minute to get what you’re putting down. You don’t care if you’re related. Kissing him felt good and everything else in this filthy apartment couldn’t possibly matter less. Even who’s dad is who. When it clicks, you physically see it on his face. Something like a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “That’s as good an excuse as any.”
He leans in to kiss you again and you hope your mom takes her sweet time on her date.