Forbidden Kin

The first time I noticed something was off with my family, I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to finish a history essay on the Peloponnesian War.

Mom stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled like garlic and tomatoes. Normal. Tuesday night normal. She'd been humming all afternoon, some old song I didn't recognize, and when she turned to grab a spoon from the drawer, she looked at me. Just looked. Her eyes lingered a beat too long, and her mouth did this small curve thing, not quite a smile.

"You want parmesan on yours, baby?"

"I'm good."

"I know you are."

She said it soft, almost to herself, and turned back to the stove. I stared at my laptop screen for a full minute without reading a single word. That was weird, right? That was a weird thing to say.

I let it go. You let a lot of things go when you're seventeen and your dad's been gone three years and your mom's been doing that thing where she talks to you like you're the only person in the world who matters. I figured it was just loneliness. Grief does strange things to people's mouths.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jess.

*You still coming to the game Friday?*

Jess. Jessica Okonkwo. She sat two rows behind me in AP Chem and had this habit of tapping her pen against her teeth when she was thinking. She'd been texting me more lately. Nothing obvious. Just questions. Just check-ins. But I'd started noticing how she'd find reasons to walk past my locker between third and fourth period, and how her laugh got a little louder when I was in earshot.

I typed back: *Maybe. Depends on if I finish this essay.*

*You're such a nerd.*

*You're the one who asked.*

*I ask because I care, Marcus.*

I put the phone down. Mom was watching me from the stove, that same half-smile on her face.

"Who's that?"

"Just Jess."

"Jess from school?"

"Yeah."

"She's pretty."

"Mom."

"What? She is."

I closed my laptop. The essay wasn't happening tonight.

Here's the thing about my step-sister, Dani. She's twenty-two, three years older than me, and she moved in with us when her dad married my mom five years ago. Her actual dad, not my dad. My dad died. That's a whole other thing I don't feel like getting into right now.

Dani's the kind of person who fills up a room without trying. Loud laugh. Big opinions. She'd dropped out of college sophomore year to "find herself," which in practice meant working at a coffee shop and painting these weird canvases that she never showed anyone. She had a boyfriend for a while, some guy named Kyle who sold insurance and had the personality of a wet sock. They broke up two months ago.

Since then, she'd been home more. A lot more.

Like right now.

She came into the kitchen wearing one of those oversized flannel shirts that probably used to belong to Kyle, her hair up in a messy knot. No makeup. Bare feet. She grabbed a glass from the cabinet, reached over my shoulder to get to the sink, and let her hand rest on my back for maybe two seconds longer than necessary.

"Hey, little brother."

"I'm not little."

"You're seventeen."

"Still not little."

She laughed and filled her glass with water. Drank it standing there, watching me over the rim. Mom had gone quiet at the stove, but I could feel her watching too. The two of them, flanking me. Like I was a painting they were both trying to figure out.

"So," Dani said, setting the glass down. "You got a date for prom yet?"

"I'm not going to prom."

"Why not?"

Because I don't have anyone to go with and I'd rather eat glass. "Just not my thing."

She tilted her head. "You know, I never went to my prom either."

"I know."

"Kyle asked me but I said no because I thought it was lame. Biggest regret of my life."

"You have bigger regrets than that."

"Shut up." She punched my arm, light. Then her hand stayed there, on my bicep, fingers curled around the sleeve of my t-shirt. "You've gotten bigger."

"I lift sometimes."

"I can tell."

Mom cleared her throat. "Dinner's ready."

We ate in silence for a while. Or not silence. The TV was on in the other room, some news channel Mom always left running. Dani kept glancing at me between bites. Mom kept refilling my water glass before it was empty. And I sat there chewing my pasta, trying to figure out when exactly my house had turned into whatever this was.

It started small. That's what I want to say. It didn't happen all at once.

First it was Mom touching my hair when she walked past, which she'd always done, but now her fingers would trail down to my neck. Then it was Dani borrowing my hoodies and not giving them back, wearing them around the house with nothing underneath but shorts. Then it was both of them asking where I was going every time I left, what time I'd be back, who I was with. Not in a parental way. In a way that felt like they were keeping track. Like they were taking notes.

I thought maybe I was imagining it. I thought maybe I was the weird one. You hear about guys who think every woman wants them, and you don't want to be that guy. So I told myself I was reading into things. I told myself it was normal for a mom and a step-sister to care about you.

But then there was the night I came home late from Jess's house.

I'd been at Jess's studying, which was true, even if we'd spent most of the time not studying. Nothing happened. We just talked. But when I walked through the front door at eleven, both Mom and Dani were sitting on the couch in the dark, the TV off, waiting.

"You're late," Mom said.

"I texted you."

"We know." Dani's voice. Flat. "We were worried."

"I'm fine."

Mom stood up. Walked over to me. She was wearing a nightgown I'd never seen before, silk, dark blue, and she reached up and straightened the collar of my jacket like I was six years old.

"We just want to know where you are, Marcus. That's all."

"I'm seventeen."

"I know how old you are."

Dani was still on the couch, legs crossed, watching us. And I swear to God, in the light from the streetlamp outside, I saw her smile. Not a happy smile. Something else. Something hungry.

That was the first night I locked my bedroom door.

I didn't sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle. At some point, maybe two in the morning, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Soft. Careful. They stopped outside my door.

The handle turned. Slowly. Testing.

It didn't open. I'd locked it. But the handle turned anyway, once, twice, and then whoever it was let go and the footsteps retreated back down the hall.

I didn't know which one of them it was. I still don't.

The next morning at breakfast, everything was normal. Mom made pancakes. Dani complained about her shift at the coffee shop. They asked about my essay. They smiled. They passed the syrup. And I sat there eating, trying to figure out if I'd dreamed the whole thing.

But when I got up to leave for school, I noticed something.

My bedroom door was unlocked.