• I sat behind the wheel of my car, staring at the house through the rain and the windshield. It was dark and cold inside the car; I had been too preoccupied with gathering enough courage to get out of the car to run the heater. I had bags in the trunk, my cellphone in my pocket, and a wrinkled, already-worn piece of paper clutched in my hand. All the possessions I owned. My mother had died a month ago, and my father had kicked me out of the house not two weeks later. He had agreed to put me up in a hotel until he found a certai piece of information. He had refused to share what this information was, only that it meant I couldn't come home. Ever.

    A week and a half later, he had appeared at the door of the hotel, the tiny slip of paper in his hand. It bore a name, and address, and two phone numbers. He had shoved it at me, and told me to go to the adress and find the man who lived there. It took half an hour of questions to get him to admit who the man was. My brother. The son of a previous marriage my mother had been in. The other husband had won the son in the following legal battle and Mom hadn't seen him since. Dad wouldn't say anything else about him, except that he didn't want to see either one of us ever again. So I had been basically thrown into the streets at seventeen without a house or family. And the only person who could help me right now was in the house in front of which I sat.

    And I had never met him before.
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    I finally made myself open the door before I could think about it and step into the rain. My coat and hat were sitting in the back seat, completely forgotten. The coldness of the rain drove me to the door and I huddled under the lip of the roof - the stoop was without one. Well, I had made it halfway, I could make it the rest. I turned and stared at the door. I could feel several minutes more of debating coming. And I probably would have stood there for the next several hours if it hadn't been for the car that pulled in behind my Oldsmobile. Yes, that was the only car my parents had been willing to buy me. The only one my dad had been willing to part with. Anyway, the headlights of this second car fell on me and I panicked, raising my fist and rapping on the door. Oh no, now there was no going back. I swallowed a hard lump in my throat and shivered, hearing the car door open. C'mon, open up open up open up! There were lights on in the house, so I knew someone was home.

    "Hey!" A nasally, up-beat voice called from the vicinity of the driveway and I groaned inside. How was I supposed to explain this? To be honest, I hadn't even figured how I was going to explain it to...my...brother. The thought was still a strange one. I could hear footsteps behind me and debated running; but decided against it, since that would be even more difficult to explain later. Thankfully, I was saved having to do either by the door opening to spill light out.

    I squinted up at the man standing in the doorway. He was half-turned to talk to the room behind him, his pale blue eyes not yet really seeing me. He was good-looking, but I could see too much of my mom in him to find him attractive. He had the black hair that I had gotten from her, his worn at about his ears - my own was halfway down my back. There was something about his cheekbones that reminded me of Mom, but he had a different sort of nose and mouth. He was also ridiculously tall, topping six feet to my five and a half. He turned his full attention to me, his forehead creasing curiously.

    "Hi." He had a deep, pleasant voice, "Can I help you?"

    "Yeah, I'm-" I cleared my throat nervously, "I'm looking for Damian Watson. Does he live here?"

    "That's me. What do you need?"

    Panic closed my throat as the women and her companions - another girl and three boys - joined me on the stoop. "Hey Ian! What's up? Who's your girlfriend?"

    "Hey Lizzie." He ignored the second question, stepping aside and letting them past. He returned his gaze to me, still curious. I cleared my throat several times before I managed to get the first words out.

    "My name is...Joan Hawke. My mother's name is Carrie Hawke." Comprehension dawned on his face and I pushed on before he could cut me off, "I have a note here from my dad for you."

    “I don’t want anything from him.”

    “Wait!” I threw out a hand caught the door, “Please.” He stopped, but his face had a guarded, distrusting look. I shoved the piece of paper at him and pulled a manila envelope from the front of my sweatshirt. He took them both, opening the envelope and scanning the first page. It seemed to take forever, and he kept glancing up at me.

    Finally, finally, he moved. He slid the paper back into the envelope and stepped aside. When I stood staring blankly at him, he waved me impatiently inside with the envelope. I ducked in, automatically hunching my shoulders as I passed him. This whole affair gave me a terrible, alien feel, and I didn’t like it. I don’t think he noticed – he looked a little distracted, anyway – as he led me down the hall, into the living room. It was a large, apartment-looking living room, the dining room separated from the living room only by a bar with several tall stools crowded around the front. A fridge was open on the far side, someone was bent over and noisily pushing things out of the way inside. A TV blared a movie from the right, at least seven people crowded onto a three-cushioned couch, a boy spilling over one of the arms, and a girl perched on the other. They were all talking loudly to each other, nearly drowning out the TV and each other.

    “Ian! Who’s your girlfriend?” The boy who was slumped over the arm of the couch twisted around to look at us. He had a friendly, open face and a wide smile that reached all the way to his blue-gray eyes. Ian shot him a hard look and he put up his hands defensively, laughing easily. One of the girls on the couch grabbed his pale blond spikes and pulled his head around so she could talk to him. I stood uncertainly, watching all of them hanging out and laughing at each other, and almost didn’t notice Ian start toward a hall in the corner. He glanced back once and I was hurrying after him, chewing nervously on the inside of my lip.

    His room was the last one in the hall, a blank door on the right. He pushed it open and stepped in first, kicked articles of clothing out of the way as he did. The door closed with a soft click, and we were alone. I swallowed nervously and stood fidgeting, waiting for him to speak. He simply continued to push stuff out of sight and jam clothes under his bed. After a few minutes of this, the room began to look relatively picked-up.

    “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.” I nodded and he pushed past me, back into the hall. Leaving me alone. In a strange room, in a strange house, with strange people. I began to do the logical thing in such a situation - I paniced. I was in control enough that I didn't sprint from the room, screaming like a madwoman. But it was a close thing. Instead I kept moving; going from sitting on the edge of the bed, to sitting in a desk chair, to pacing the room, to glancing over the few books he had on a shelf. I couldn't hold still. I think I was afraid some would actually happen if I stopped moving. Of course, pacing the room didn't stop it happening.