The Other Brother

My brother has always been better than me.

Better grades. Better job. Better car. Better everything. When we were kids, Mom would hold up his report card like a trophy and then look at mine like it was a parking ticket. "Why can't you be more like Daniel?"

I stopped trying to answer that question years ago.

Now he's forty-two, a partner at his law firm, living in a four-bedroom house in the suburbs with a wife who looks like she walked out of a fitness magazine. And I'm thirty-five, freelance graphic designer, living in a studio apartment that smells like the Thai place downstairs.

But he called last week. Asked me to come visit. Said Rachel had been "going through something" and could use the company while he was working.

"I've got a trial coming up," he said. "Sixty-hour weeks minimum. She's alone in that big house. You'd be doing me a favor."

I should have asked more questions.

Rachel meets me at the door.

She's forty-four, but you wouldn't know it. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Tank top and yoga pants that show off a body she clearly works hard to maintain. Toned arms, flat stomach, legs that go on forever. She's been doing Pilates for years—Daniel bragged about it once, how his wife "still looks like she did at thirty."

Like she was a car he was showing off.

"Jake." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Thanks for coming."

"Danny said you could use the company."

Something flickers across her face at his name. "Did he."

She steps aside to let me in. The house is immaculate. Magazine-perfect. It looks like no one actually lives here.

"He's not home?" I already know the answer.

"He's never home." She closes the door. "But you knew that."

The first night, we order Thai food and watch a movie she picks—some romantic comedy I don't pay attention to. I'm too busy watching her.

She sits on the opposite end of the couch, feet tucked under her, picking at her pad thai. Every few minutes she checks her phone. It never lights up.

"Expecting a call?" I ask.

"Hoping for one." She sets the phone face-down. "Stupid, right? After fifteen years, still hoping he'll remember I exist."

"He's busy with the trial—"

"There's always a trial. Or a merger. Or a client dinner. Or a conference." She takes a long sip of wine. "Last month was our anniversary. Fifteen years. You know what he did?"

I shake my head.

"Sent flowers. From his assistant. With a card that said 'Happy Anniversary, love Daniel.' Except it was in her handwriting."

"Rach, I'm sorry—"

"Don't." She holds up a hand. "I didn't ask you here to listen to me complain about your brother. I just—" She stops. Swallows. "I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone who'd actually be here."

I don't know what to say. So I move closer on the couch and put my hand on her shoulder.

She leans into it like she's been starving for touch.

Day Two

I wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of her in the kitchen. When I come downstairs, she's in workout clothes—sports bra, leggings, hair up. Sweat on her collarbone.

"Morning run," she explains, pouring me a cup. "Helps me think."

"What are you thinking about?"

She pauses. Looks at me over the rim of her mug.

"I'm thinking about how you're the first person to ask me that in months."

We spend the day together. She shows me her garden—roses and tomatoes and herbs she grows because she likes it, not because anyone notices. We make lunch together. She laughs at my jokes, and the sound is rusty, like machinery that hasn't been used.

"When did you last laugh?" I ask.

"I don't remember."

That shouldn't make my chest ache. But it does.

That night, she drinks more wine than she should.

We're on the back patio, watching the sun set over her perfect suburban yard. The neighbor's sprinklers are going. Somewhere, a dog barks. It's so normal it hurts.

"Can I tell you something?" she says.

"Anything."

"I know about her."

I freeze. "Her?"

"Daniel's paralegal. Lauren." She says the name like it's poison. "They've been fucking for eight months. Maybe longer."

"Rachel—"

"He doesn't know I know." She takes another drink. "I found the texts. The hotel receipts. He's not even careful about it. It's like he wants to get caught. Like he's daring me to say something."

"Why haven't you?"

She looks at me. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying. She's too tired to cry.

"Because I'm forty-four years old. Because I gave him my best years. Because I don't know who I am anymore if I'm not Daniel Morrison's wife." She laughs—bitter, broken. "Pathetic, right?"

"No." I take her hand. "Not pathetic. Human."

She stares at our joined fingers. "He stopped touching me a year ago. Said he was too tired, too stressed. But he's not too tired for her."

"That's not about you—"

"Isn't it?" She looks up at me. The sunset paints her face gold. "Am I not desirable anymore, Jake? Is that it? I work out every day. I watch what I eat. I do everything right. But he looks through me like I'm furniture."

"You're not furniture."

"Then why doesn't he see me?"

"Because he's an idiot." The words come out before I can stop them. "Because he's my brother and I love him but he's always been blind to what matters. He sees the house, the career, the status. He doesn't see you."

"Do you?"

The question hangs between us.

"Yeah." My voice is hoarse. "I see you."

She leans in. Stops an inch from my lips.

"This is a terrible idea," she whispers.

"I know."

"You're his brother."

"I know."

"If he found out—"

"He won't."

"Jake—"

"Tell me to stop." I'm shaking. "Tell me to stop and I will."

She doesn't tell me to stop.

Her lips taste like wine and desperation.

She kisses like she's drowning, like I'm air. Her fingers dig into my shoulders as she pulls me closer. I can feel her heart pounding against my chest.

"Inside," she gasps. "Not out here."

I follow her through the sliding door, through the kitchen, up the stairs. The house is dark. Every step feels like crossing a line that can never be uncrossed.

Her bedroom—their bedroom—is at the end of the hall. She hesitates at the door.

"Not here," she says. "Guest room."

The guest room is smaller. Neutral. A bed that Daniel has never slept in. That feels right.

She turns to face me. Her hands go to the hem of her tank top.

"I need you to know something." She pulls the shirt over her head. Sports bra beneath, then that's gone too. Her breasts are perfect—small, firm, nipples hard. "I'm not doing this to hurt him."

"Then why?"

She unties her yoga pants. Slides them down. She's wearing nothing underneath.

Her body is a testament to discipline—toned abs, defined arms, legs sculpted from thousands of miles of running. But there are lines around her eyes. A softness at her hips. Signs that she's human, not a statue.

"Because I need to feel wanted." She steps toward me. "Because I need to remember what it's like to be touched by someone who actually sees me. Is that wrong?"

"No."

"Will you touch me, Jake?"

I close the distance between us.

I kiss her throat. Her collarbone. The space between her breasts. She shivers under my mouth, making sounds like she'd forgotten she could.

"It's been so long," she whispers. "So fucking long—"

I lay her on the bed. She watches as I undress—shirt, jeans, boxers. Her eyes widen when she sees how hard I am.

"For me?" She sounds genuinely surprised.

"All for you."

I climb over her. She spreads her legs, and I can see how wet she is. Glistening. Ready.

"Please," she says. "I need—I need—"

I slide into her.

She gasps. Her back arches. Her nails rake down my back hard enough to leave marks. She's tight—incredibly tight—and burning hot.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Oh fuck, yes—"

I start slow. Deep strokes that make her moan. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper, like she's afraid I'll disappear.

"Don't stop." Her voice is ragged. "Don't you dare stop—"

I don't.

She comes three times before I finish.

The first is quick—barely five minutes in, she's shaking and crying out, her whole body clenching around me. The second builds slower, a rolling wave that leaves her gasping my name. The third happens when I reach between us and rub her clit while I fuck her, and she screams into the pillow so the neighbors won't hear.

When I finally come, she holds me inside her. Legs locked. Arms around my neck.

"Stay," she whispers. "Just for a minute. Stay inside me."

I stay.

We lie in the dark, tangled together. Her head is on my chest. My hand traces circles on her back.

"We shouldn't have done that," she says.

"Probably not."

"We're going to do it again, aren't we?"

"Probably."

She laughs—a real laugh this time. Light. Young.

"What happens when he comes home?" I ask.

"I don't know." She traces a finger across my chest. "I haven't thought that far ahead. I've spent so long just surviving each day. I forgot to think about tomorrow."

"Maybe it's time to start."

She props herself up on one elbow. Looks at me in the darkness.

"Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For seeing me."

I pull her down for a kiss.

"Thank you for letting me."

Day Three

Daniel calls in the morning.

Rachel answers in the kitchen while I'm eating breakfast. I watch her face go through the motions—polite smile, nodding along, saying "uh-huh" and "of course" and "I understand."

"Trial's running long," she says when she hangs up. "He won't be home until Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday."

"That's four more days."

"Yes." She walks toward me. Puts her hands on my shoulders. "It is."

We spend the day in bed.

Not just fucking—though there's plenty of that. We talk. She tells me about her dreams before Daniel, how she wanted to be a chef but her parents thought that wasn't "practical." She tells me about the miscarriage in year three, how Daniel went back to work the next day. She tells me about the slow erosion of everything she used to be.

"I don't know who I am anymore," she says. "I'm not Rachel Chen, the girl who wanted to cook. I'm Rachel Morrison, Daniel's wife. That's my whole identity."

"It doesn't have to be."

"What else is there?"

"Whatever you want." I brush hair from her face. "You could leave. Start over. You're forty-four, not eighty-four. You have time."

"He'd fight me. He'd make it ugly."

"So let it be ugly. At least you'd be free."

She's quiet for a long time.

"Would you wait for me?" she asks finally. "If I left him. If it took months, years even—would you wait?"

"Yes."

"You mean that?"

"I've spent my whole life in Daniel's shadow. His house, his career, his wife." I pull her closer. "You're the first thing that's ever been mine."

"I'm not a thing."

"No." I kiss her forehead. "You're everything."

Day Four

She starts to plan.

I watch her make lists—lawyers, bank accounts, assets. She moves through the house taking photos of what she wants to keep. She calls a friend from college, talks in hushed tones, starts to smile.

"There's a food truck incubator in Portland," she tells me over dinner. "They help first-time owners get started. I could do that. Maybe. Someday."

"You could do it now."

"It's terrifying."

"So is staying."

She reaches across the table. Takes my hand.

"Will you come with me? To Portland?"

"Wherever you want."

"I'm serious. I'm not asking you to fix my life. But I'm asking if you want to be in it. Really in it. Not as a weekend escape from my marriage, but as—as a partner. An equal."

"Rachel." I squeeze her hand. "I've wanted you since the first time Daniel brought you to Thanksgiving. Ten years I've watched him take you for granted. Ten years I've been jealous of a man who doesn't appreciate what he has."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because he's my brother. Because I thought you were happy." I shake my head. "I was wrong about a lot of things."

"So were we all." She stands. Comes around the table. Sits in my lap. "Stay tonight. Tomorrow. Stay until we figure out what comes next."

"And Daniel?"

"Let me worry about Daniel." She kisses me—slow, deep. "For now, just stay."

Day Five

Daniel comes home early.

We're in the kitchen—Rachel cooking, me chopping vegetables—when the front door opens. Footsteps in the hall. That voice I've heard my whole life.

"Rach? I got out early. Thought I'd surprise—"

He stops in the doorway.

Takes in the scene. Rachel in her apron. Me with a knife in my hand. The intimacy of it. The domesticity.

"Jake." His eyes narrow. "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me." I keep my voice steady. "Remember? You said Rachel could use the company."

"That was—I meant—" He looks at Rachel. "Why is he cooking with you?"

"Because he offered to help." She doesn't flinch. "Because he asked what I wanted to make. Because he's here."

Daniel's face goes red. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means you weren't." She unties her apron. Sets it on the counter. "We need to talk, Daniel."

"Jake, give us a minute—"

"No." Rachel's voice is steel. "He stays."

I won't repeat everything she said.

The accusations. The receipts she pulled from her phone. Lauren's name, over and over. The hotels, the late nights, the lies he thought she believed.

Daniel tried to deny it. Then he tried to minimize it. Then he tried to blame her—she was cold, distant, always at the gym.

"Maybe if you were around more—"

"I was around," she snaps. "I was here every night, waiting for you. Dinner on the table. Wine poured. Dressed up because I thought maybe tonight would be different. And every night you came home late or not at all, and I ate alone, and I went to bed alone, and I convinced myself that this was just what marriage was."

"Rachel—"

"No. I'm done." She points toward the stairs. "Your things are in the guest room. I want you out by tomorrow."

"You can't—this is my house—"

"It's our house. And I have documentation of every affair, every lie, every cent you spent on that girl. You want to fight me? Fine. I'll see you in court with the best divorce attorney your money can buy." She smiles—sharp, dangerous. "I hear there are some good ones at your firm."

Daniel looks at me. Like he's expecting me to take his side.

"Don't look at me," I say. "You did this to yourself."

He leaves.

After

The divorce takes eight months.

Daniel fights, just like she said he would. But Rachel fights harder. She gets the house, a fair settlement, and her freedom.

She moves to Portland. Opens a food truck. Vietnamese street food—recipes from her grandmother that she's been perfecting for years.

I follow three weeks later.

"You sure about this?" she asks when I pull up in my car, everything I own stuffed in the back. "This is a big change."

"So was falling for my brother's wife." I pull her into a kiss. "I'm good at big changes."

The first year is hard. We learn each other's rhythms—not just in bed, but in life. How she needs quiet in the mornings. How I leave my clothes everywhere. How we both snore.

But we make it work.

And every night, when I pull her close in our tiny apartment above the food truck, I think about that first night on the patio. The sunset. The wine. The question she asked.

Am I not desirable anymore?

I spend every day showing her the answer.

Daniel remarried last spring. Lauren, of course.

Mom called to tell me. Said I should reach out, mend fences.

"He's your brother," she said. "Blood is thicker than water."

I looked across the room at Rachel, flour on her cheek, laughing at something on her phone.

"No thanks," I told Mom. "I have everything I need."

I never answered her calls again.