Bombora by Mal Peters Page A

got to the kitchen.
    Still, both she and Phel obey, though he says, “Obviously you two have something to discuss,” in a strangled voice. “It’s not my place.” The glance exchanged between him and Nate is one I have no hope of interpreting. “I wouldn’t want an audience present for a conversation of this kind with my family.”
    I want to remind Phel that he doesn’t even talk to his family, but the point is moot and it would be a dickish thing to bring up. So I roll my eyes and say, “According to Nate, it’s nothing anyway. Right, Nate?” Both of them glare at me. “It’s my house!” I add stubbornly. “I deserve to know why my married brother is suddenly showing up unattached on my doorstep.”
    Something about my phrasing makes Nate and Phel both flinch. “Who said anything about ‘unattached’?” my brother demands, fingers tightening around his glass of water. For the first time since he got here, I realize his fingers are naked except for the silver ring he always wears on his right hand. His gold wedding band is gone, which wouldn’t normally be such a big deal—he’s always afraid of losing it at work somewhere—except for the look on his face when he sees me notice.
    I take a step back from the table. When I was little, the best way to get Nate’s attention or find out information was, if not outright bribery, to keep saying his name until he caved. I’m tempted to do that now, a steady line of Nate, Nate, Nate, Nate, NATE , but it’s as much to satisfy the sudden flash of worry as it is concern he won’t eventually tell me what’s the matter. When your brother—who never goes anywhere without his family—suddenly shows up at your house at the other end of the country with a single suitcase and a stubborn refusal to call his wife, there’s a really short list of explanations.
    He must know me too well, because before I can start scrabbling for the one that’s least likely—Emilia’s mother wanted a quiet vacation with just her daughter and grandson, maybe—he sets his jaw and says, “Emilia and I are getting divorced,” in a voice tight with something , and refuses to look away from the middle distance. Not at me and certainly not at Phel, and suddenly I feel like the biggest heel going for not letting Phelan make a break for it when he first tried. I swallow around the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me. “She and Liam are still in Mount Vernon, and she’s going for full custody. I didn’t know how to tell you this over the phone, so I just started driving. Okay? She threw me out.” Phel is staring at him, hard, but Nate won’t meet his eye and takes a swallow of his water instead. For a fraction of a second, our gazes collide.
    “What happened?” I ask in a horrified whisper, but before Nate can respond, Phel pushes himself away from the counter with a deafening scrape of the chair against the kitchen tile. Both Nate and I jump. Phel says, “I’m leaving,” in a tone of voice that clearly says, That is fucking it .
    Nate nods to himself like the announcement surprises him not at all, lifting his glass in a sarcastic toast. “So long, Phel,” he chirps.
    “Don’t move,” I order Nate, and scramble after Phel in the direction of the front door, which he’s managed to reach with surprising speed.
    Maybe Nate’s impending marital breakdown—my response to even thinking the words is an automatic what the fuck? —takes precedence, but I still promised myself I would get to the bottom of Phelan’s sudden moodiness. We’re at the point where we’re blunt with each other pretty much all the time, or at least I am, and I kind of like what we have going. But I know I’ll never get a straight answer out of him if he leaves now, since honesty with Phel is like spotting Halley’s Comet: miss it, and chances are you won’t see it again this lifetime.
    “Phel, wait up,” I say, trying once again to grab his wrist. This time he manages to evade me.