“He’s your brother!” Dad shouted. “You sacrifice yourself for your family. That’s what women do. Your mother completely agrees with me. She said it was a wonderful gesture.”
“My mother is okay with anything that stops you from screaming,” I muttered. But he didn’t hear me.
“Look, I’m done talking about this,” he said, as the TV volume increased in the background. “Lucas is staying with the car. You can come over for dinner on Sunday, and we’ll talk about finding a smaller rental car, something more suitable for a single girl. Don’t make a scene, Elina. Don’t ruin everything for him.”
The line went down.
I stood there, the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the silence. He’d hung up. He’d stolen my car, confessed it, insulted me, and then hung up as if he’d just settled a minor dispute over what pizza to order. I lowered the phone and looked at the screen. The call had lasted four minutes and twelve seconds. In that time, my entire understanding of my role in this family had gone up in smoke.
I walked into the living room and collapsed on the couch. The shock was beginning to fade, replaced by a cold, vibrant anger. I thought of Lucas. Lucas, who was 31 years old. Lucas, who last year had borrowed $2,000 from me for an investment that turned out to be online poker debt. Lucas, who was now driving my immaculate leather-trimmed SUV without a license, probably smoking inside right now.
