Xander arrives in a half hour. I’m somewhat tucked into a corner, and so he walks straight into the restaurant, toward the older man, without a glance my way. Given that I haven’t seen Xander in years, I’m grateful for the chance to get a look at him, to replace my memories.

Last time we were together, at a disastrous family Thanksgiving, he was lanky, made of angry angles and frustratingly excellent boy-hair. The excellent boy-hair is still there, but he’s filled out. Even in the dress shirt I can tell his long limbs are now muscular, those of a man, not a boy—

Wait. Xander is in a dress shirt? Xander, who wore shitty band t-shirts for our brief shared childhood? We were only in the same house for three years— our parents got married when I was twelve, he was fourteen, and then Xander got thrown out at eighteen…but in that time, I’d pretty much pegged him as the “like hell I’ll ever wear a button-up” type. I’d also pretty much pegged him as “my type”— I had a crazy, embarrassing, all-encompassing crush on him, back then…

“You are here for your sister?” the older man says.

“Stepsister,” Xander says swiftly, and hearing the word in his voice kicks up memories like fall leaves. He always, always made sure people knew I was his stepsister, not biological sister. Our parents, who had this nutso idea that we’d all move in together and suddenly become this flawless ideal American family, hated when he called me that. They hated it even more when, following Xander’s lead, I only referred to him as my “stepbrother”, never “brother”— a distinction I was also clear to make, given that whole all-encompassing crush thing.

The older man points to me, and Xander spins around. It takes his eyes a moment to find me, even though I’m the only one in the tiny restaurant. When he does finally see me, there’s a weird flicker of distrust— like he thinks this might be a mistake. That I’m not his stepsister at all. He swallows and clears his throat, then walks toward me in a steady, controlled stride, a walk that’s totally different than the way he entered the restaurant.

“Hey, Josie,” he says.

“Hey,” I say, and a smile washes over my face, one that I can’t control-- just like before, just like when we were teenagers. I hurry to wipe it away, flushing. “Sorry to bug you. I just—”

“It’s not a problem,” he says. “I didn’t know you were in New York.”

“I just got here,” I explain.

“A man took her purse,” the restaurant owner says, appearing over Xander’s shoulder suddenly. “She is okay, though, but she is not good to walk home by herself.”

“You got mugged?” Xander says, whipping his head back to me, eyes wide. “Did you call the police?”

“She said not to,” the restaurant owner answers for me with a full-bodied shrug.

“Are you alright? Really?” Xander asks, and begins to look over me more intently, like he’s searching for a broken bone or missing hand or knife wound. Almost as soon as he starts scanning me, he stops, looks away, then meets my eyes again.

“I’m okay. It was just kinda of a crappy welcome to New York.”

“Right,” Xander says, exhaling. He turns back to the restaurant owner. “Thanks so much for helping my stepsister out.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, then fishes a bill from it. It’s a hundred dollars, and my eyes widen. It’s not that it’s an insane amount of money, but it’s a hundred dollars more than Xander left home with— and a hundred dollars more than I expected him to tip someone for taking care of me.

The restaurant owner, however, looks almost offended. He waves the money away. “Come here, bring your friends. Tell them we are good people. I don’t help people for their money.”

Xander’s face softens— well, it softens a little. “I will. I have good friends. They’ll be sure to stop by.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say, standing. The restaurant owner nods at me, smiles, then goes back behind the counter by his son, who is preoccupied chopping onions. Without looking back at me, Xander nods toward the door and I follow him outside to a black car he arrived in, which is waiting for him. He opens the door closest to us, and I keep moving forward, expecting him to slide in first. Instead, I realize he’s holding the door for me.

I’ve been hit full on by the scent of Xander’s cologne or deodorant or soap or something. Oddly enough, there’s a familiar scent to him, though it’s buried underneath a more powerful, masculine scent that he definitely didn’t have when we were living together. I negotiate around him and climb into the cab, which smells like cigarettes and cleaner. The driver doesn’t even look up at me, so I pretend to be engrossed in the TV screen on the passenger seat-back while I wait for Xander to climb in on the opposite side of the car.

“Where’s your hotel?” Xander asks as he gets in.

“I’m not in a hotel.”

“AirBnb?”

“I’m in a dorm. I transferred here.”

Xander looks like I’ve just announced that I’m donating my kidney to a dictator.

“A dorm. You’re going to school here.”

“Yeah.”

“You live here. In New York. Since when?” he asks. His voice is laced with doubt, like he thinks I might be lying to him.

“Since today. Since about four hours ago, I guess.”

His lips part, and I notice a scar by his jaw that wasn’t there last time I saw him. It’s thin and narrow, and I find myself wanting to ask about it. Wanting to find out how he got it— the story behind it, the story I don’t know because…well. Because I don’t know Xander. Not really. I’ve never known Xander, even when we were living in the same house. I always idolized him, his badass attitude, the way he didn’t care what our parents thought, but he more or less always ignored me. Makes sense, I guess— who wants to hang around with your kid stepsister?

“What about your mom and my dad?” he asks. “Do they know you called me?”

“No. I don’t want to…well. I don’t want to worry them,” I say. I don’t want to talk to them is more like it, but that seems like a lot to unload on Xander at the moment.

“It would worry them,” Xander replies, and looks out his window, very intentionally looking in the complete opposite direction of my face. “They always worried about you. Even my dad acted like you were some glass figure he’d inherited..”

I press my lips together. He’s not wrong— our parents did always worry over me more. But then again, Xander spent most of our years together forcing our parents not to worry about him. Forcing them to give up on him.

“Sorry I didn’t call you before now. I should have let you know I was moving here, I guess,” I say quietly.

“Why would you?” he answers with a shrug, finally looking back in my direction. “We haven’t talked in years.”

I take a breath. As relieved as I was to see Xander, as heartwarming as it was to have him so immediately come to help me, I’m suddenly reverting to the role of kid sister, embarrassed to be annoying her older stepbrother.

Xander must have seen my face fall, because he sighs. “This is really unexpected. Seeing you just makes me think about…you know. My dad, your mom, leaving home, all that shit. It’s like you’re a visitor from another planet.”

“Same,” I answer. “You look good, Xander.”

I mean it as a kind, easy compliment, but I’m instantly flushing because my voice went a little…rough. A little too complimentary for a stepsister. Xander does look good. Really, really good. Even though I’m trying to avoid staring, I notice the way his shoulders are broader than before. The way he sits up straight, the way his hands have become large and strong. His nice leather shoes, the sharp lines of a recent haircut. I always thought Xander was handsome, but now, he’s…well. He’s hot.

And he’s my stepbrother, so I should stop thinking that immediately, I remind myself. Thank god the taxi is dark— otherwise he’d see the fact that my face is turning neon red.

“Yeah, well. Thanks, you look…” he starts, then changes course immediately. “Do you want to come to my place for a coffee? I live close to the school. I can give you some recommendations. The New York City welcome packet, so to speak. We can catch up. If you want to, I mean.”

“That’d be great,” I say sincerely, trying not to sound too eager.

“Cool. Yeah,” Xander says, the exhales a big, powerful breath. He tips his head back against the seat for a moment, then looks over at me. He smiles, and while I can tell it’s mostly forced, there seems to be a little actual pleasure in there too.

“It really is good to see you, Josie. I know I’ve been a crap stepbrother.”

I wave a hand at him, dismissing the apology. “It’s fine. Let’s be real— we barely know each other. It’s not like we grew up together. It’s not like you’re my real brother.”

Xander looks at me for a beat too long, and I can’t help but feel like he’s searching my face for something. He must not find it, because he nods, then stares straight ahead at the setback television. “Still your stepbrother, though.”

“Yeah. Of course,” I answer, and turn to look out my window for the rest of the short ride.