Free Me, Myself and Why? by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

leather sandals.
    “Hi,” he said, holding out a hand. I was so overcome by his good looks, it took me a couple of seconds to realize I was supposed to shake with him. And when I finally did, I was morbidly aware of my sweaty palms. Why didn’t Shiro ever rescue me from humiliation? She only showed when I needed to fight.
    “Hi.”
    “It’s nice to finally meet you. My sis talks about you all the time.”
    I could feel the color rush to my cheeks and looked at my feet. “Oh, well, you know,” I said, both self-deprecatingly and idiotically.
    “I enjoyed our puzzling yet intriguing phone conversation.”
    “Uh—oh.” This guy? This gorgeous auburn-haired besandaled god had been on the phone with me? And Shiro? This guy? “Huh. That’s, um, that’s nice. And all. Yep.”
    He grinned, showing the dentition of a soap opera star. “Yep, that’s pretty much what our phone conversation was like: puzzling yet weird.” He glanced around the kitchen and then turned to his sister. “Cathie, for God’s sake. The toothbrush again?”
    This forced a giggle out of me, which earned me his bright smile and her glance of dislike.
    “So! Who do I have to smack to get some food around here?”
    “You’re the cook,” Cathie snapped. “Why don’t you feed us?”
    “Ah. The soul of courtesy, no matter what the circumstances. And what kind of a business trip is it if I have to cook?”
    Apparently Patrick made a ton of money by baking delicious cakes, pies, and pastries. He certainly didn’t look like what I’d imagined a baker to be. He looked like a firefighter who went windsurfing on his off days.
    To my amazement, the two siblings were quickly in the middle of a real spat, inching toward each other, gesturing, shouting—soon they would be nose to nose! My God, did she hate him? Did he hate her? Why were they being so mean? Was deep-seated rage the reason they almost never saw each other?
    I could do nothing but watch helplessly as the argument escalated.
    “—can’t just barge—”
    “—know who you’re—”
    “—like to see you—”
    Granted, I had no true idea of what constituted “normal family dynamics,” but this seemed a little extreme. Soon they would come to blows! I could never let that—

Chapter Nineteen
    “Quit that. Right now.”
    They ignored me and kept shouting at each other. The fools. I eyed the bickering siblings and willed my upper lip not to curl.
    It occurred to me that it was getting easier and easier for me to “come forward” and drive Cadence’s body. Perhaps that quack, Nessman, was onto something.
    But that was not my problem; this was. I seized the siblings by the backs of their necks and briskly banged their heads together. They howled in unison, a grating harmony—his baritone yell, her alto yelp.
    “Behave,” I said sternly.
    Cathie rubbed her forehead, and her eyes widened as she recognized me. “Shiro Jones, you go straight to hell!” she shrilled. “Get out of here! I wanted Cadence to meet my brother. You weren’t invited.”
    “Wait,” Patrick said, rubbing an identical red spot on his forehead. “What? I thought you said her name was Cadence.”
    “It is. Most of the time, anyway. This is one of her other personalities—Shiro, the one who likes to fight.”
    “I do not like to fight,” I corrected her. “But Cadence will not.”
    “Sure you don’t,” Cathie replied with uncalled-for rudeness.
    While I appreciated Cathie’s loyalty to the three of us, I could not help the fact that I did not think much of her. She cut her self. As if the world were not already full of people who would gladly hurt her for free.
    Artists. ’Nough said.
    And she did it so she could “feel something.” It was puzzling and odd and contemptible. Cadence-the-eternal-ninny was warm and sympathetic. But that was Cadence—always drawn to weakness.
    And her older brother, Patrick—I could not deny he was a handsome man. Well built and in decent shape—those