Fake the Date

The Brother

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Chapter 6: The Brother

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Sitting down at the kitchen table, my mind remained bewildered as I stared at what was presumed to be Ryan's brother. I've only known the guy for a couple of days, and the fact that he has a brother shouldn't be a shock, but a guy like Ted compared to a guy like Ryan . . . there's no way that they could be related.

They're like complete opposites.

How is it possible for one brother to be so polished, rich and successful, while the other looks as if they just rolled out of bed, poor and broke?

Still immersed in my state of shock, Ted speaks up first. "Who are you?"

My head snaps out of its cloudy state of mind and pops back into the real world. "I don't think that's any of your business." I answer. "Why should I tell you anything? How do I know that you're not lying to me about being his brother?"

"Ask me anything!" he says, arms stressed out to the side in an egotistical manner. "Make it personal, and then you'll know."

My gaze averts from his as he says that. I couldn't ask him a personal question about Ryan because I didn't know anything personal about Ryan. Who was I to judge? If he's lying about being his brother, so what? Soon enough, I'd be lying to him too.

"It's okay, I believe you." I reply, my voice a tone higher than I wanted. Raising the pitch of my voice was a usual fault I had when it came to lying or obstructing the truth. It's why I couldn't be a lawyer. "But I still won't tell you anything."

"Not even your name?" he asks. He crosses his arms loosely against his chest as his eyebrows arch expectantly.

Reluctantly, I sigh, "My name's Marie."

"Hello, Marie," a warm smiles overlaps his bony face, "my name's Ted. It's a pleasure seeing you again." He uses his right hand to tuck a strand of his raven colored hair behind his ear, showing off the piercings that aligned them in staggered rows.

My eyes narrow at his kindliness. It was weird. Not only did it completely contrast Ryan's attitude, but it was nowhere similar to how Ted had been treating me before. From what I remember at the bar, he basically had to force himself to give me a drink.

"So . . . what do you do for a living?" Again, my eyes narrow at his words. "What? You know where I work, it's only fair that I know what you do."

"I'm a teacher." I answer cautiously.

"A teacher? Really?" He says, his face full of astonishment. "What level do you teach?"

"High school." I reply dryly. I love teaching, I just not fond about talking about the students I teach. Maybe it was because of my age, but it got increasingly frustrating when they never listened to me, no matter how many times I called for their attention. It feels like I teaching a pack of wild dogs.

"Wow!" Disbelief shrouds his voice, "And you go to a bar and get yourself drunk knowing that one of your students, or the student's parents, could be there themselves, watching you? I mean, it is high school after all. I know that I've been to quite a few places like that myself when I was their age."

I gawk at him. He's sitting there talking as if he's some grandfather who's at the end of his days when he looked no older than my students in the first place.