Family and Other Accidents Read Free

points at her. “Mona Lockridge, general assignment reporter for the award-winning
Cleveland
Plain Dealer
.” Pointing at him: “Connor Reed, Beachwood High School senior.”
    â€œHey.” The reporter nods. She’s cute in a pale way—an unfocused-eyes kind of way; a freckles-across-the-bridge-of-her-nose kind of way—very different from girls Jack usually dates, with their sleek pageboy haircuts and fitted skirts. “I’m sorry about your car accident.”
    â€œThanks.” Connor glares at Jack, who didn’t need to tell the reporter about the accident, who didn’t need to chastise him in the Sentra for an hour, who didn’t need to be a cheeseball when introducing the reporter.
    â€œWhere’s Jenny?” Jack asks, absolutely oblivious.
    â€œShe has a midnight curfew,” Connor says, more accusatory than he intends.
    â€œI can give you a curfew.” Jack shrugs. He’s wearing his uniform of khakis and a blue button-down. Since starting at Jones Day, all his clothes, even non–work clothes, look exactly the same. For Christmas, Connor decided to get him stock in Brooks Brothers. “You’ve got leaves in your hair.”
    â€œYeah, it’s fall.” Connor tries not to sound sullen, not in front of the reporter with her amazing hair, who knows only that he gets into car accidents, is somehow mad about not having a curfew, must roll around outside. “That happens.”
    The reporter laughs, a little nervously, and the way her nose crinkles makes her beautiful, even though she probably isn’t, is probably only pretty. It’s funny she’s a reporter because she looks like the character from the comic strip about the reporter he used to read at breakfast—Brenda Starr.
    â€œWell, um, speaking of curfews, I should get going,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ve got work at seven tomorrow.”
    Pushing herself to her feet, she straightens her sweater, brushes palms across the front of her jeans. Connor knows she’s leaving because she doesn’t want to sleep with his brother, or she doesn’t want to do it yet and doesn’t trust herself to stay, and he likes her for that, likes her for wanting it to mean something.
    Her hands are pale and chaffed, nails short and unpolished. They look cold, and he wants to warm them between his own hands. But it’s Jack who reaches for her fingers.
    â€œDon’t go,” Jack says. “Not so soon.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” She squeezes Jack’s fingers—neither one of them particularly interested in Connor or his lack of a curfew anymore. Then Jack smiles his Jack smile, and Connor takes that as his cue to leave.
    He and Jack may look alike, have the same black hair and eyes, but when Jack smiles he looks like such a yearbook-handsome, all-around good guy. Last weekend Jenny gave Connor doubles of photos her parents took before homecoming, and he noticed his own smile looked not only forced but pained—more like he was squinting from a migraine than genuinely happy.
    Upstairs Connor’s bedroom door is closed, and he wonders if that means Jack brought Brenda Starr upstairs or planned to and didn’t want her to see the mess—sheets and comforter on the floor, college application parts scattered across the quilted mattress, clothes and shoes and school stuff blanketing every square inch of the carpet, skis and poles creating a dangerous obstacle in the middle of it all. When the maid service came last week, the uniformed girl just shook her head and said she wouldn’t touch the room. There was nothing she could do. He’ll have to make them clean it next Saturday so he and Jenny can have sex; the dull stomachache.
    Connor’s bedroom is really Jack’s old room. But Jack had been staying in their parents’ room since he came back from Philadelphia after their mother died. Last year Connor had switched to