Free The Little Brother by Victoria Patterson

purse, looking for something. She started walking away from me, still rooting in her purse, and then she found it: her keys. They jangled in her hand.
    â€œWait,” I said.
    She stopped but didn’t turn.
    â€œI’ll drive,” I suggested, even though I didn’t have my driver’s permit on me. I didn’t want her to drive drunk, but I knew it wouldn’t work to call her on it.
    With her back to me, she extended her arm; the keys dangled from her hand. I came forward and took them from her—a brass heart keychain. We started walking toward the parking lot.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked.
    I told her.
    â€œYou’re shitting me,” she said. “What kind of name’s that?” And then she added, “That’s not the name on that paper you get signed.”
    â€œIt’s my brother’s,” I said. It came out before I thought to lie.
    We came to an old, faded blue Toyota Tercel with a dented back bumper, and she said, “It’s not locked.” The driver door creaked open and I sat. She got in on the passenger side. It smelled like cigarettes and vanilla.
    After adjusting the seat and mirrors, I tried to act like I knew what I was doing, turning the key in the ignition and revving the engine, relieved it wasn’t a stick shift. Gabe and Dad had taken me driving in parking lots and the streets around Dad’s house, but I was still nervous.
    She stared at me. The car jerked into reverse, and she said, “Whoa!”
    â€œSorry,” I said, smoothing into drive.
    I drove slowly, hunched forward in my seat, peering at the road.
    â€œYou look like a grandpa!” she said, and then she patted me on the shoulder and said, “Hi, Grandpa!”
    We stopped at a Del Taco drive-thru, and she ordered a couple of tacos, fries, and a burrito.
    â€œWe’ll share,” she said, removing my ten from her wallet and handing it to me to pay the cashier. “My treat, Even.”
    We pulled out of the parking lot. “Turn right at the signal,” she said, sorting through the bag of food, not looking at the road, “then left at the next signal.”
    I followed her directions to her apartment complex in Costa Mesa— THE KON-TIKI , the sign said. While I drove, she ate. “Sorry,” she said, between chews, “I can’t wait. I’m so hungry.”
    â€œI don’t mind.”
    â€œPark here,” she said, the parking lot one straight strip with no place to turn around, and I pulled into her carport.
    We stared at each other in the dark, and she said, “How’re you going to get home?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
    â€œYou might as well come inside and eat,” she said, and then she told me that I could sleep on her couch if I wanted. Immediately, I took this as a proposition and felt a stiffening inside my jeans.
    We walked through the complex: At its center was a gated pool with a strong chlorine smell, lit up and aqua-colored, wavering with shadows.
    Once we were inside her apartment, she switched on a standing lamp and offered me a 7-Up. She set our bag of food on the coffee table and then went to the kitchen for our sodas. I sat on the couch and waited for her.
    The apartment was made up of a kitchen and living room combination and a bedroom and bathroom, with pale, blank walls, minimal furniture, and an old TV. Lonely and bare.
    â€œI just moved,” she said. “Haven’t decorated much.”
    She sat next to me on her couch and we ate and drank our sodas, the lamplight yellowish and warm. After we finished eating, she didn’t speak and took sips from her can. She crossed one leg over the other, and I started imagining scenarios: her brushing against me, then leaning farther into me, and my seizing the opportunity, our age difference obliterated by my skills as a lover. Handling her with expertise and executing