Free Consent by Nancy Ohlin

fridge.”
    â€œFreeloader.”
    â€œNice to see you too. Is El Padre home?”
    â€œNope, it’s just me.”
    â€œAwesome. Come on, let’s microwave some stuff. The Giants are playing.”
    I trot down the stairs, suddenly happy that my brother is here. He moved away to go to State when I was six. Since then, he returns to the house only sporadically, even though he lives just a few towns over.
    We head into the kitchen together, and as we do, I notice the burnt-oregano smell of pot wafting from his clothes. He opens the refrigerator door and surveys the contents. “Hmm. Cheese, a can of pinto beans, salsa . . . we might be able to engineer some nachos here. How old is that pizza?”
    â€œUm . . . Friday?”
    â€œOutstanding. Why don’t you nuke it while I look for tortilla chips? Second quarter’s about to start.” Theo grabs two bottles of beer, twists off the caps, and hands one to me.
    â€œI don’t like beer.”
    â€œIt’s time you learned. Come on, drink up.”
    â€œJerk.” I raise the bottle to my lips and take a sip. Ugh, it tastes like pond water.
    A short while later we are sitting in the living room watching the Giants and the Broncos. Pizza, nachos, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter cover the coffee table. Also, three bottles of beer—Theo has finished his first one and is well into his second. I’ve managed to get through half of mine, and my head is feeling a little spinny.
    Theo drapes his arm across the back of the couch, puts his feet up on the coffee table, and gives me a dazzling smile. He is really cute, and he knows it. He is also way better dressed than he should be. His leather jacket seems brand new, and his jeans and hoodie are designer. How does he afford all this on a CVS salary?
    He picks up the remote and points it at the TV. “So where’s the old man?”
    I shrug. “I’m not sure. Maybe at the office? I just got back from a sleepover with Plum.”
    â€œWhat in the hell kind of name is Plum?”
    â€œIt’s her nickname. She used to call herself that when she was a baby. She’s my best friend, remember? Pernilla Sorenson? You met her, like . . .” I calculate. “Three Christmases ago. She came over with cookies and fruitcake.”
    Theo considers this. “Braces? Kind of fat?”
    â€œShe wasn’t fat. And she’s thinner now. Plus, she doesn’t wear braces anymore.”
    â€œWhatever you say.”
    â€œYou are such a jerk.”
    â€œYeah, I think we already covered that.” He dangles a bottle from his fingertips and takes a long swig.
    We fall into an edgy silence. Theo and I always descend into this, and quickly. For the first few minutes of seeing each other, we manage to pull off a semblance of lighthearted brother-sister banter. And then our bad history takes over.
    â€œSo . . . how’s life? How’s Rachel?” I ask him, trying to get back to lighthearted.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œRachel. The last time you were here, you said you were meeting up with your girlfriend, Rachel something.”
    â€œOh, yeah, her. We broke up. I’m with Melissa now. She’s an artist.”
    â€œThat’s cool. What kind of artist?”
    â€œDunno, paintings?”
    As I reach for a nacho and nibble on an edge, I wonder if Theo has ever had a relationship that lasted longer than a few weeks. The nacho is borderline inedible. “So, um . . . how’s your band? Are you guys playing gigs and stuff?”
    â€œNot really. Our drummer just moved to New Mexico. We’re looking for a replacement.”
    â€œDo you have any candidates?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œUm, so, are you still working the night shift at CVS?”
    â€œWhat is this, Twenty Questions? The Giants are about to score.”
    Obediently, I turn to face the TV. The Giants make a touchdown, and the