My Brother's Girl

by Sienna Blake

  “What?”

  “When I said the name was the name,” he said, looking at me but refusing to look at the sign. “Did you not hear me?”

  I stared at him as he paced.

  “Did you not hear me when I said that I didn’t want to change the name of the shop?” he continued, if anything just growing more and more angry as he turned on his heel to march the other direction. “Is that the problem here?”

  Standing there in the suddenly roasting heat of the shop, I reminded myself that I had promised I was going to keep my cool. I told myself I had promised to always keep a smile, always keep the tone of my voice even, and never, never raise my voice. I repeated again and again, as fast as I could in my mind, that I wasn’t, I wasn’t, I wasn’t going to let Darren get under my skin. Again.

  In the blink of an eye, I promptly forgot it all, every fecking word of it.

  “I heard you,” I hissed, my voice still quiet but no longer small, no longer weak.

  At the sound of my voice, Darren stopped his manic pacing. He stopped and he stared at me and he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”

  It was me who surged forward this time. I didn’t care that we’d just replaced frozen pies with spare tyres and greasy wrenches. I didn’t care that the only thing that had changed from before was that it was the hum of a generator and not the hum of a freezer that competed with our ragged, angry breaths. I didn’t give a fuck that we were falling into the same hole we fell into before and the only difference was that the bottom was grey concrete and not white linoleum.

  I was mad and I wanted to be mad. I wanted to be mad at Darren. I wanted to mad with Darren.

  “I said, ‘I heard you’,” I said darkly, narrowing my eyes at him. “I heard you just fine, actually. The only ‘problem’ here is that you are wrong.”

  Darren’s cheeks reddened at my words. Unluckily for him, I was just getting started.

  In a tone of voice that would make my mother gasp before hurriedly doing the sign of the cross with her spindly fingers, I moved even closer to Darren, punctuating each word with a step. “Dead. Ass. Wrong.”

  I didn’t wait for him to open his mouth to counter or argue. I dove right back in.

  “If you want something, you take it,” I whispered angrily. “If something is yours, you claim it. If you love it, if you truly love it, you don’t let anyone else put their bleeding name on it. No one.”

  I was shaking from head to toe when I turned in a huff and marched to the office, slamming the door behind me. I reached out for the chair and collapsed into it just before my knees gave out. I buried my face in my hands as I shook my head back and forth.

  What in the hell was that? Who in the hell was that?

  My mother had taught me more self-control than that. She’d beaten it into me since I was a young girl. Night after night she drilled the importance of not raising my voice, not speaking my mind, not making anyone mad into my impressionable head so I soaked it all up like a sponge.

  And then one mysterious man with grey-blue eyes and a bad attitude comes along and it all goes out the window?

  As my heart thudded erratically in the confines of that small office, I knew the problem wasn’t that I didn’t believe what I’d said to Darren. I’d believed every word of it. The problem was that I hadn’t been talking about some stupid mechanic’s shop sign.

  And I think he knew it.

  Darren

  Behind the shop was a narrow alley with a graffitied dumpster, a stack of pallets covered in fallen leaves, and more than its fair share of rats. This is where I intended to toss the sign Kayleigh had ordered and purchased for the shop without my consent—with the rest of the trash.

  The door to my office in the back had barely finished rattling on its rusty hinges after Kayleigh stormed off and I was already gripping the top of the sign and dragging it across the concrete floors. Even the horrible shrieking of metal against metal wasn’t as unbearable as the very sight of my family’s name on the goddamn thing. I kicked the alley door open and cursed under my breath as I manoeuvred the giant sign into the narrow space lined in crumbling bricks. In the gently falling drizzle, it clattered noisily against the dumpster, disturbing a few rats from their greasy pizza box homes.

  Without another glance back at it, I hurried back inside the shop, puffing warm air back into my frigid fingers and shaking off the cold from my shoulders. I told myself it would be picked up with the rest of the rusted cans and sticky beer bottles and mountains of snot-filled tissues the next morning. I reassured myself that I had seen that the very last of O’Sullivan’s Garage. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I was in Kelly’s Garage, where everything was quiet, everything was safe, and nothing was mine.

  Throughout the day, as I crossed the shop to retrieve this screwdriver or that bolt, this wrench or that sealant, this hammer or that cable, I found my eyes drifting involuntarily toward the door leading to the alley. I tried to focus on my work, to get dragged under into that world of mechanics where everything had its place, reason, role, where everything made sense. But my mind wouldn’t stop drifting back to that goddamn sign.

  When Kayleigh left at exactly 5 p.m. without a word or glance in my direction, I stopped pretending to work on replacing a motorcycle’s brake pads and hurried yet again toward the alley door at the back of my shop. I cursed under my breath again as I manoeuvred the bulky, heavy sign through the door to get it back inside.

  I wiped my sweaty brow after letting the sign fall with an echoing ring against my workbench and stepped back to look at it.

  “I don’t want to change the name to O’Sullivan’s Garage because I’m respecting my friend, Stephen Kelly.” I said the words aloud, hoping that if I heard them, I’d believe them.

  I’d told this excuse to Kayleigh and expected her to believe it, but that was difficult even for me. The first thing Stephen had asked me after we signed the papers and shook hands was what I was going to change the name of the shop to. Stephen himself would probably be surprised to see that same old shabby sign with his name on it still outside.

  “I don’t want to change the name to O’Sullivan’s Garage because it’s just too much of a hassle,” I tried next.

  This excuse wasn’t much better. Even knowing I would never change it, I’d tortured myself one night by researching the steps it would take. The hardest part would be getting a new sign in, and well, here one was right in front of me.

  “I don’t want to change the name to O’Sullivan’s Garage because I don’t feel that I deserve to use the family name,” I finally said after staring at the sign for what felt like hours.

  These words didn’t echo around the empty garage like the last ones. They hung around my neck, heavy and true.

  And yet, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t throw out the sign, even though it was like a stab in the heart every time I looked at it.

  It took half the evening to hide it in the office. I dragged out every filing cabinet, every box of old invoices, every accordion folder of receipts, every knickknack and poster and ten-year-old calendar still pinned to the wall. The damn thing just barely fit, but it fit. I arranged everything back in front of it, and when I finally closed the door to the office for the night, I was certain that even I wouldn’t be able to see it in the morning.

  My alarm clock rang and rattled off my nightstand a full thirty minutes earlier than usual so I could beat Kayleigh into the shop. I knew uttering the words “I’m sorry” would be difficult for me, so I figured making the coffee would have to do as a sort of peace offering. She couldn’t have possibly known the heavy baggage I weighed on the O’Sullivan name, and I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on her.

  But there ended up being no need to rush around in the dark, because 7:30 rolled around and then 8...9...9:30…

  By the time Kayleigh’s car pulled into the shop’s drive, the pot of freshly brewed coffee was ice cold. From my stool next to the motorcycle I didn’t fix the day before, I wat
ched her march straight to the office, eyes fixed ahead, and close the door promptly behind her. Drumming my fingers on my knee, I glanced over at the coffee pot. I could microwave a cup. Everyone knew women loved microwaved cups of coffee...

  I could try again tomorrow morning. And if she came in early the next morning and I missed her, I could try the next day or the next or the next. Eventually I would get her a hot cup of coffee and we would be square.

  The ridiculousness of it all was obvious to even me. I exhaled loudly while pressing my fingers against my eyes. I had to do it. I had to face Kayleigh and apologise face-to-face.

  With a deep breath, the kind you hastily suck in before leaping off the high diving board as a kid, I called out in the quiet shop. “Kayleigh, can you come out here for a minute?”

  I winced at the sound of my voice as I stared anxiously at the office door; even I thought I sounded like a chain-smoking robot. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to come out. For a moment I thanked my lucky stars. But then the door creaked and Kayleigh peeked her head out. “Did you say something?” she asked.

  She had yet to step a foot outside the office, but at least she was talking to me. That was a first step, I supposed.

  “Umm,” I cleared my throat, “would you mind coming over here?”

  She eyed me warily, but finally came when I dragged over another stool for her to sit on. She scooted it farther away before lowering herself to sit on the very edge of it. The message was clear: she was ready to bolt at any misstep. With her green eyes fixed on me and the smell of her peppermint shampoo just teasing my nostrils, I considered returning to the microwaved coffee plan.

  “Did you need something?” Kayleigh asked, impatiently tapping the toe of her boot.

  “Umm, yes, I…” My sentence trailed off as I scratched at the back of my neck.

  “Well?” Kayleigh lifted an eyebrow.

  “Umm…” Why was I suddenly sweating? I reminded myself to check the heater as I fumbled for the right words to say.

  Kayleigh shook her head and started to push herself to her feet, saying, “Look, if you don’t need anything, I’m going to go back to my off—”

  “That,” I blurted out.

  Kayleigh, paused halfway between standing and sitting, going and staying, glanced in confusion over her shoulder to where I was vaguely pointing. “What?”

  Eyeing my toolbox, I quickly improvised. “The screwdriver.”

  When Kayleigh looked toward where I was indicating, I took the opportunity to slip the perfectly capable screwdriver I had been using to work on the motorcycle into the side pocket of my work pants.

  “A screwdriver?” Kayleigh’s suspicious eyes returned to me. “You called me out here so that I could fetch you a screwdriver?”

  Mission Apology was off to a rough start, it seemed. But what was I going to do at this point? Just open my mouth and tell her exactly how I felt? That I felt bad about getting angry at her, but I struggled with expressing my emotions, like guilt (especially like fecking guilt) aloud? No. Hell no. That was even more ridiculous than microwaved coffee. I was left with only one option.

  Nodding my head, I said, “Yeah, would you mind grabbing it for me?”

  Kayleigh hesitated, eyes searching mine, but then she walked over to the large toolbox and held up a screwdriver. “This one?”

  I squinted to see if it was the right gage.

  “You know you could just come over here and look and I could go get back to work in the office,” Kayleigh grumbled, drumming the tip of the screwdriver against the toolbox.

  “No, no,” I said before she decided to leave. “That should work just fine.”

  Kayleigh rolled her eyes and I held back a grin, because it was real. When she smiled she was beautiful, but I often couldn’t help but think that it was a beautiful mask. I’d take the rolled eyes, the exaggerated sighs, the cheeks flushed in anger any day.

  Kayleigh stopped just close enough that if I stretched my arm out as far as I could, the tips of my fingers could just barely grip the tip of the screwdriver. She didn’t even wait for me to grab proper hold of it before letting go, turning on her heel, and taking a determined step back toward the office.

  “Wait, wait,” I called to her, fumbling to catch the screwdriver.

  Kayleigh stopped, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “You need something else?” she asked.

  Her shoulders were relaxed, her hands held loosely at her sides, her lips parted just slightly. Everything about her body language was casual, nonchalant, easy, like I was a stranger on the street who just asked her if she knew where the nearest coffee shop was. Everything but her eyes.

  She couldn’t hide the interest, the curiosity, the searching from her eyes.

  I didn’t need anything from her, but I wanted so much. And I think she wanted me to need something from her, too.

  “Can you help me really quick?” I asked.

  Kayleigh glanced at the office. “I’ve got quite a bit of work to do,” she said.

  She resisted because she had to. It was a rule of this dangerous game we were both playing, whether we knew it or not. She had to resist because she was mad at me. She had to resist because I was her boyfriend’s asshole brother. She had to resist because if she didn’t resist, the game was over and we all would lose: me, her, Eoin, my entire family.

  “It will just take a minute or two.”

  Biting her lip, Kayleigh looked at the stool next to me like it was covered with rusted nails. She shook her head. “I shouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words that slipped from my lips startled even me.

  Kayleigh recoiled like I just blurted out the most heinous, foul curse words known to man. She turned to face me. “For what?”

  I opened my mouth to reply with the answer that I at first thought was obvious: for yesterday. But the look in Kayleigh’s eyes made me pause. Maybe she knew before I did. Maybe she could hear the whispers of my mind that I’d pushed away, ignored, deafened with the electric saw or the pounding hammer or the roar of this or that engine. Maybe she could see in the way I looked at her that I had much more than just yesterday to confess.

  My work stool wasn’t a pew and Kayleigh wasn’t a priest, but in the silence of the shop, I looked up at her and finally let the guilt wash over me.

  I’m sorry that I saw my brother’s girl naked and didn’t turn away.

  I’m sorry that I think about my brother’s girl when I go to sleep.

  I’m sorry that I want to kiss my brother’s girl, hold my brother’s girl, laugh with, scream with, ride with, make love with, tangle sheets with my brother’s girl.

  I’m sorry that I want my brother’s girl to be my girl.

  “Darren?” Kayleigh whispered.

  With a defeated sigh, I dragged my hand over my face. I scratched at the back of my neck before finally saying, “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  Kayleigh watched me, eyes darting between mine. But I couldn’t admit the truths of my heart. Not aloud. Never aloud.

  “I shouldn’t have reacted like that to the sign. I’m...” I shrugged lamely. “I’m sorry for yesterday.”

  Kayleigh held her arms tight against her chest and shuffled the toe of her boot against the concrete floor. “Thanks,” she said and then added under her breath almost too quietly for me to hear, like a silent admission to herself, as if the shop wasn’t a confessional booth for just me, “I’m sorry, too.”

  We remained in silence for a moment or two. I expected Kayleigh to return to the office when I returned my attention to the motorcycle, but when she finally took a step it was toward me. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as she took a seat on the stool next to mine.

  “I have a minute or two to help,” she said softly.

  The wheels of her stool scuffed against the concrete floor as she moved a little closer to me and the motorcycle. I never thought such a simple sound, one I heard day in and day out as I worked, could send
lightning through my body like that. Kayleigh’s knee brushed against mine and I nearly dropped the screwdriver.

  “Okay,” I said, swallowing heavily. “So this right here is the camshaft…”

  For Kayleigh, the day was spent learning about the brake system on a ’79 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. For me, the day was spent ripping my heart open and exposing it piece by piece to her. My work at the shop was often the only thing keeping me together. Just as often it was the very thing tearing me apart. It was my torture chamber; it was a still, quiet pool of healing. I wanted to escape it; I wanted to lock myself in, board up the exits, and never leave.

  On the days where it was just small adjustments, cosmetic changes, or simple maintenance checks, I got lost in the work and it was a brief respite from the constant war in my mind. When a totalled vehicle came in, the struggle waged more than ever, because it was an undeserved chance at redemption and it was a deserved reminder of the mistake I could never make right.

  My work and my shop were held in the most intimate parts of me, and sharing them with Kayleigh made me feel vulnerable and exposed, but also, for the first time in a long time, seen.

  “Have you been on one?” I asked as the street lamps outside flickered on in the early light of dusk.

  Kayleigh brushed a strand of long red hair out of her face with the back of her hand because her fingers were covered in grease. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d had a streak on her cheek since the morning. Besides, it was too damn cute. “A motorcycle?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Never.”

  I hesitated, pretending to be busy adjusting a bolt along the brake pad I showed Kayleigh how to replace. “You know, I could take you for a spin sometime,” I said. “I mean, if you’re going to help with the bikes you should at least see what the big fuss is about.”

  I glanced over at Kayleigh nervously and found her smiling at me. “Tonight?” she asked excitedly.

  “Tonight?”

  She grinned. “Why not tonight?”

  I laughed. I wasn’t sure when the last time was that I laughed within these four protective, confining brick walls.