Elara
I am not stupid; I am just wired differently. That is what I tell my reflection as I work a fresh coat of pink dye into my hair at the bathroom sink.
Is being different good? Is it bad? I do not know, but I like the way Anderson said it. I finish quickly, and after I rinse it out, the dark roots are gone, replaced completely by the bright pink.
"Elara. Anderson. Lunch is ready," Sophia calls from downstairs. "Come down now."
I leave my room and wait by my door for Anderson, so we can walk down together. He does not appear. If he had already gone down, I would have heard him, thanks to the walls in this house that are not very thick at all. He has to pass my room to get to the stairs. I decide to go to his room instead.
I will just tell him the food is ready and then leave. It is a simple plan.
His door is open a little. I slip inside and stop, letting my eyes get used to the dark. The curtains are closed, and the lights are off. I know he is here. Anderson never goes out on Saturdays.
A phone on his desk begins to vibrate. The screen lights up the room, and I see him. Shirtless, stretched out on the bed with his arms folded over his face and a pillow under his head. His phone continues to buzz. Someone is calling, but he does not move to answer it.
I wait a few more seconds, then move closer to the bed. He does not stir. "Anderson?" I say softly. "Lunch is ready, brother," I add, just to tease him. "Are you coming?"
No response. I leave his room as quietly as I entered. Sophia and my dad are already eating when I get downstairs. They share a tense look, and then their attention goes to my hair. It is a vivid pink that you could probably see from a long way off.
Sophia is the one who breaks the uncomfortable silence. "Your hair looks very pretty, Elara."
Her compliment feels real, so I give her a real smile in return. My dad does not look as happy as she does. I pull at the edge of my skirt to keep my hands busy and to stop myself from saying something to wipe that disappointed look off his face.
"I thought we were past this phase," Dad says.
This phase that started after my mother died. She loved bright colors. I change my hair color to feel a connection to her.
"It seems we are not," I reply, spooning some stew into my bowl. "I am sorry. It is not going to stop anytime soon."
Dad makes a fist on the table, and Sophia places her hand over it. "It does not look so bad," she says.
"Wow. Thank you for that, Dad." I look at the food on my plate, then at the two of them eating together. I do not want to eat with them. I want to eat with my stepbrother. I stand up and pick up my plate. "Can I take this upstairs?" That gets me a furrowed brow from my dad and a curious look from Sophia. "I will take mine and Anderson's up. Sophia, what better way to build a relationship than with a meal? They say food is the path to a man's heart, right?"
I look only at my stepmother. If she says yes, my dad will agree. She presses her lips together, then gives a small nod. That is all the permission I need. I hurry to the kitchen to find bigger bowls and a tray. My dad is muttering by the time I return to the dining room, but I am too excited by the idea of eating with Anderson to calm him down.
What will we talk about? My hair? Anderson could not have been serious when he said it was ugly. It is bold. It demands attention. But it is not ugly.
"Thank you, Sophia. You are the best." I blow a kiss to her, and she laughs. My dad instantly looks jealous, his face pretending to be uninterested. I put the tray down and kiss his cheek. "You too, Dad. You are the best."
Before he can answer, I am already heading up the stairs. I knock once on Anderson's door and walk in without waiting.
Anderson is sitting at the desk near the balcony door. Unfortunately, he is wearing a tank top now, but I can still see his tattoo. He looks up when I enter, then rests the guitar on his leg. I hope he will play it. I have never heard him play.
"What do you want, Elara?"
A layer of exhaustion hangs over him, the same kind I saw when I came in before. I take another step into the room, and he signals for me to stop. He does not look angry, so I decide to be careful.
Something is clearly wrong. I take another small step, and Anderson just ignores me. I decide not to let it bother me. According to Iris, practice on Friday was fine. Rehearsals have become more demanding but are still fun, so it cannot be school stuff bothering him. I push the thought away and take one more cautious step toward him. I know he can be kind, and I want him to be in a good mood when we eat.
I lift the tray. "I brought food."
"I am not hungry."
I close the distance between us, set the tray by his feet, and sit on the floor with my legs folded. "It is too late for that now."
"Go away, Elara."
"No."
The rich smell of the stew fills the air when I take the lid off the bowl. My mouth waters, but I make myself serve Anderson first. Before Sophia, I was stuck with my dad's average cooking, so I will always be thankful for her talent in the kitchen.
Anderson watches, looking helpless, as I put a large portion of rice on his plate. I give him the biggest piece of beef from the bowl, and he mumbles a quiet "thank you" that makes me smile. Our fingers touch when he takes the plate from me, and a warm sensation travels up my arm and all the way down to my toes.
My cheeks feel as hot and pink as my hair by the time I serve myself. I need to get a hold of my feelings. He is my brother. My stepbrother.
After his first bite, he says, "This is good."
"Your mother is a great cook," I answer. He winks at that.
"Do you still think I have a nice smile?" I ask.
"Yeah."
We eat without talking for a while. Every so often, he taps his laptop and the screen lights up. From my spot on the floor, I cannot see it clearly, but I catch a glimpse of a YouTube channel. I hope to have one of my own when I get more followers on TikTok. Right now, I have six thousand.
"What were you working on before I came in?"
"Nothing important."
"Anderson." His eyes close for a second, and he puts his empty plate on the desk. My gaze travels over his body, and a new kind of hunger wakes up inside me, one that has nothing to do with the food Sophia made. I push my own plate aside and kneel on the floor between his legs. "Will you play the guitar for me? I have never heard you play."
"No." My hands find their way to the hem of his shorts, and his eyes snap open. I am brave enough to move my fingers another inch, stroking the skin of his thighs. It is so smooth under my touch. Anderson draws in a sharp breath. "Elara. Stop."
"I will stop if you say yes." I run my tongue over my lips, and his eyes follow the movement. My heart is pounding, and all logic is gone. I gently push his legs farther apart. His blue eyes become a little narrower, and color rises in his cheeks. "Anderson, will you please play the guitar?"
"Fine. I will play." He tries to pull his shorts from my grip, but I only hold on tighter. His face is so close to mine. The urge to lean forward and kiss him is incredibly strong. "Now, get off me."
Suddenly very aware of how this would look if one of our parents walked in, I pull my hands back. "Sorry."
"You are a lot to handle," he mutters, so quietly I am sure he did not mean for me to hear it.
I let out a small, nervous laugh. Shame and excitement fight inside me, and shame wins. I pick up my forgotten plate and push the food around with my fork.
"Sorry," I mumble again. The food is cold now. It has lost its flavor, just like I have lost the courage I had a moment ago.
"It is part of the whole package," he says.
Anderson takes the plate from me and sets it on the tray. He puts a finger under my chin and lifts my head until our eyes meet. My heart slows to a heavy, single beat. "You are not stupid, Elara," he says. I give him a small, half-smile. "Stop using that word for yourself."
"Will you play the guitar?"
"I will."