Holidays are Hell(2)

"I checked it."

His arm landed across my shoulders, and together we navigated the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Robbie was eight years older than me, a sullen babysitter who had become an overly protective brother, who had then vanished four-plus years ago when I needed him the most, fleeing the pain of our dad's death. I had hated him for a long time, envious that he could run when I was left to deal with Mom. But then I found out he'd been paying for Mom's psychiatrist. Plus some of my hospital bills. We all helped the way we could. And it wasn't like he could make that kind of money here in Cincinnati.

Robbie slowed as we entered the kitchen, silent as he took in the changes. Gone was the cabinet with its hanging herbs, the rack of dog-eared spell books, the ceramic spoons, and copper spell pots. It looked like a normal kitchen, which was abnormal for Mom.

"When did this happen?" he asked, rocking into motion and heading for the coffeemaker. It looked like a shrine with its creamer, sugar, special spoons, and three varieties of grounds in special little boxes.

I sat at the table and scuffed my feet. Since Dad died, I thought, but didn't say it. I didn't need to.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. I'd like to say Robbie looked like my dad, but apart from his height and his spare frame, there wasn't much of Dad about him. The red hair and green eyes we shared came from Mom. The earth magic skill I dabbled in came from Mom, too. Robbie was better at ley line magic. Dad had been topnotch at that, having worked in the Arcane Division of the Inderland Security, the I.S. for short.

Guilt hit me, and I glanced at the application peeking out from under the napkins.

"So," Robbie drawled as he threw out the old grounds and rinsed the carafe. "You want to go to Fountain Square for the solstice? I haven't seen the circle close in years."

I fought to keep the disappointment from my face—he had been trying to get tickets to the Takata concert. Crap. "Sure," I said, smiling. "We'll have to dig up a coat for you, though."

"Maybe you're right," he said as he scooped out four tablespoons, glanced at me and then dumped the last one back in the bag. "You want to go to the concert instead?"

I jerked straight in the chair. "You got them!" I squealed, and he grinned.

"Yup," he said, tapping his chest and reaching into a pocket. But then his long face went worried. I held my breath until he pulled a set of tickets from a back pocket, teasing me.

"Booger," I said, falling back into the chair.

"Brat," he shot back.

But I was in too good a mood to care. God, I was going to be listening to Takata when the seasons shifted. How cool was that? Anticipation made my foot jiggle, and I looked at the phone. I had to call Julie. She would die. She would die right on the spot.

"How did your classes go?" Robbie said suddenly. His back was to me as he got the coffeemaker going, and I flushed. Why was that always the second thing out of their mouth, right after how tall you've gotten? "You graduated, right?" he added, turning.

"Duh." I scuffed my feet and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. I'd graduated, but admitting I'd flunked every ley line class I had taken wasn't anything I wanted to do. "Got a job yet?"

My eyes flicked to the application. "I'm working on it." Living at home while going to college hadn't been my idea but until I could afford rent, I was kind of stuck here, two-year degree or not.

Smiling with an irritating understanding, Robbie slid into the chair across from me, his long legs reaching the other side and his thin hands splayed out. "Where's The Bat? I didn't see it in the drive."

Oh… crap. Scrambling up, I headed for the coffeemaker. "Wow, that smells good," I said, fumbling for two mugs. "What is that, espresso?" Like I knew? But I had to say something.

Robbie knew me better than I knew myself, having practically raised me. It had been hard to find a babysitter willing to take care of an infant prone to frequently collapsing and needing shots to get her lungs moving again. I could feel his eyes on me, and I turned, arms over my chest as I leaned back against the counter.

"Rachel…" he said, then his face went panicked. "You got your license, didn't you? Oh my God. You wrecked it. You wrecked my car!"

"I didn't wreck it," I said defensively, playing with the tips of my hair. "And it was my car. You gave it to me."

"Was?" he yelped, jerking straight. "Rache, what did you do?"

"I sold it," I admitted, flushing.

"You what!"

"I sold it." Turning my back on him, I carefully pulled the carafe off the hot plate and poured out two cups. Sure, it smelled great, but I bet it tasted as bad as the stuff Mom bought.