Page 136 of Scoring Lessons

“Hi, Kenny baby,” the unmistakably voice of my brother said.

“Don’t Kenny baby me. You’re still on my shit list.” She winced when her tone came out too normal—which, for our hungover state, was the equivalent of a Zamboni engine starting up in a studio apartment.

“I figured after I saw you storm out last night with a tequila bottle, you all could use some breakfast.” He grimaced as he looked over Kennedy’s shoulder and took in the state of Valentina’s living room then lifted a brown takeout bag and a drink carrier in the air and wiggled them.

“Is that an apology breakfast, Anderson?” Valentina quipped groggily, officially giving up on sleep.

“He’s going to need a whole lot more than that,” I muttered.

Kennedy widened the door just enough to let him in. Not a clear invitation, but more as a probationary period, and my brother stepped inside, eyes sweeping the carnage of last night. Empty tequila bottles and plastic shot glasses of all shades of neon colors. Takeout containers. Four women in various states of horizontal suffering.

To his credit, he didn’t say anything.

He set the coffees down on the table one by one then started pulling containers out of the bag. Eggs. Toast. Hash browns. The kind of breakfast that meant he’d put some thought into it, which was either genuinely sweet or a calculated move.

Knowing my brother, it was the latter.

“There’s an oat milk latte in there,” he said, not looking up. “I hope that’s still your favorite.”

“It is.” I picked it up without another word.

His eyes found mine and softened.

It reminded me of this one time when Mom taught us how to ride a bike. Henry, being the overachiever he was, caught on fast and dropped the training wheels just as quickly. I couldn’t get the hang of it no matter what I tried. I had been frustrated in the way only a kid can be frustrated—like the whole world hinged on it. But he took the time to teach me his tips and tricks. And while the rest of the neighborhood kids were on his case about ditching me so they could go on their “biking adventures,” Henry never once left me side.

We were the same age, but he’d always treated me like his little sister. And right now, him standing in Valentina’s wrecked living room, looking at me like he was checking for damage meant only one thing.

He still saw me that way. The little sister he had to teach the real lessons of the world to. The one he had to shield from everything.

And that was part of the reason we were in this mess in the first place.

“Okay, you can go now, pretty boy,” Kennedy said, grabbing her coffee and breakfast burrito. “Thanks for the breakfast, but you’re still persona non grata around here.”

“I—” He hesitated, eyes finding mine. “Can we talk?”

I pursed my lips.

He swallowed. “Please.”

I nodded toward the exit.

We sat on the front steps in silence for a moment, the morning moving around us like we weren’t there. A neighbor walking a dog. A car pulling out of the lot. He turned his coffee cup in his hands like he was still working out where to start. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, because you did a lot of damage.” My tone was harsh, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for it.

He winced. “That’s fair. I deserved that.”

I sighed as I ran my finger tip around the rim of my coffee.

“Do you remember what it was like?” he asked quietly. “Back in Vancouver, when we were kids.”

The screaming. The berating. The drunken nights that came without warning, and my brother always stepping in front of it.

My stomach turned at the thought. “Yeah.”

“The worst part wasn’t when Vincent told me I was good for nothing. Wasn’t even when he hit me.” His jaw ticked. He looked out to the street, somewhere far away. “The worst part was when I couldn’t protect you. Or Mom.” His voice had gone quiet at the end as he looked at me again.

I stared at the steps beneath my feet. “Henry⁠—”