Best Big Brother Ever

"It didn't bother me," I said. That was true, partly because I knew she'd been teasing—and partly because I knew that I was a pervert. And then I remembered how rattled I'd been, and I amended my statement. "At least, not after I got over the surprise."

I heard the smile in her voice as she said, "I did surprise you! But I made you feel bad, too. I don't ever want to do something like that to you again."

"No," I replied. "It was just surprise. At your reaction when I…" I stopped. I was embarrassed now—a little too embarrassed to go on.

"…got hard?" she finished for me. "And I rubbed against you? I know that guys don't have very much control over that reaction, Bry. You didn't offend me." She paused, and her hand, still on my thigh, squeezed me again. "In fact, like I said, I liked it. But I shouldn't have rubbed."

"That's what surprised me most," I said. "If it had been any other girl, I don't think it would have. But sisters aren't supposed to…" I let that sentence hang, too.

"Sisters are people, too," she said. "And they're girls. It's nice when a girl finds out that a guy thinks she's hot—even if it's her brother. Maybe even especially if it's her brother, because he isn't supposed to notice."

"You are hot, Vick," I said. "And I'm okay with what happened last night. I really am. Like you said last night, 'Not to worry!' It was just a moment of awkwardness, and it's gone, now. As far as I'm concerned, it's been gone ever since it happened." That was true, but mostly because I was sure that she hadn't guessed the depth and nature of the feelings that had lain behind that boner.

"Thanks, best big brother ever!" she said.

We were silent for a few miles. And then she said, "Bry?"

She paused for a bit, and, eventually, I prompted her, "What?"

"You're pretty hot. It turned me on, too."

"You know," I said, "from most of the girls I could have had for a sister, that would sound weird." I glanced over at her and smiled. "But from you, it isn't."

She smiled back at me before I turned my eyes back to the highway. She hadn't taken her hand from my thigh, and she squeezed lightly one more time before she finally pulled it back. "And that," she said as she squeezed, "would sound weird from any brother but the one I actually have!"

==||*||==

We didn't talk much for a while. Traffic was light, but a pretty good snow flurry filled the air. It was very cold, but nothing was sticking, either on the road or beside it. Nevertheless, I thought that concentrating on my driving was a good idea, and she agreed. Eventually, it stopped snowing, though the sky remained overcast.

When it was reasonable to suppose that the weather really had improved, she asked, "How many girls have you done it with?"

We hadn't exactly been bragging, but we'd told each other about our sex lives in the past. So she was just asking for an update, and it didn't shock me—especially after our conversation of a little earlier, and given what I'd seen in her cosmetics bag the evening before.

"Four," I said. "Jeri, when I was in high school, Michelle and Claudia in college, and Jackie last year. She was really nice, but she finished her degree and got a really good job offer in New Jersey." I fell silent for a moment, remembering. At least the knowledge that I couldn't have the girl I wanted hadn't kept me away from other girls. Second best, I figured, would have to do.

Then I asked, "How many guys for you?"

"Just two," she said. That was one more than I remembered. She went on, "There was Dave, in high school. We'd dated for over a year before we did it, and I really got to like him." I glanced over at her; there was a distant look in her eyes. "But we broke up that summer because he was going to school in Ohio and I was going to Washington." She paused; I looked again and saw some sadness on her face. Then she continued, "We thought we might get together again someday, but…"

"I know what you mean," I said. "I really liked Jackie, and I think she really liked me. Maybe we could have made something permanent with each other if we'd stayed together. But it wasn't the right time of our lives." I didn't add that Jackie, much as I had liked her and much as I had wanted to make it work with her, hadn't been the girl I really wanted to make something permanent with. The girl I most wanted wasn't available. Would never be available. Not to me.

"Yeah," she said, "it was kind of like that for me with Dave. But now there's James. Only twice with him, though." I glanced over at her again, with a question in my eyes. (Somehow, I managed to keep my jealousy hidden.) She went on, "I started seeing him last spring, but I wasn't ready to do it with him until just before the break. I like him a lot, too."

"I think it's different for girls," I started. I paused to collect my thoughts, and she punched me before I could continue.

"Duh!" she said.

"No, not that way," I said, hurriedly, to forestall another punch. "I didn't mean different that way! I meant that I think girls need to really like someone before they'll do it with him. That doesn't apply so much to guys—we'll do it with just about anyone who's willing."

That seemed to pacify her. "You're probably right about guys. But that wouldn't work at all for me."

"I'd probably do it with anyone who's willing, but it's so much better with someone I really like. It took me a while to figure that out." It goes without saying that I didn't point out that 'someone I really like' was sitting beside me in the car.

"Yeah, you were a notorious tomcat in your misspent youth," she said. There was more than a little sarcasm in her voice.

I reached over and patted her thigh. "Luckily, I have a very proper sister to model good sexual behavior for me," I said.

She patted my thigh in return and said, "You better believe it, Buster! And, boy, have you ever needed a good role model!"

"Now that you mention it," I said, "I'd like to have a good roll—with a model!"

That got me punched a second time—and the day was still young.

==||*||==

The sky had cleared, and the sun was low over the southwestern horizon when we got to Billings, where we planned to spend the night. And, even though it was only a little after five, it was cold. We found a motel a bit into town and well off the interstate highway, where we thought prices would be a little lower.

The motel room was just like thousands of others: two double beds, a night-table beside each bed, a desk, an uncomfortable-looking easy chair, a TV, and a bathroom. We decided which bed was whose and then relaxed on them for a half-hour or so, recovering from the drive and watching the weather report. The storm that was the reason we were here seemed to be behaving pretty much as predicted, and it looked like our northern route was going to stay clear.

Worries about the weather resolved, at least for the moment, we went to the attached restaurant for supper. We knew it would cost us a bit more than other places we might be able to find in town, but we weren't in any mood to go out into that cold again—or, when it came right down to it, to spend more time in the car that evening.

Over supper we talked about what we'd do the next day. We'd stop in Spokane, we decided. It was about as far from Billings as Denver, and today's trip, while long, hadn't been onerous. That meant that we should probably hit the road at about the same time tomorrow as we had today, so we agreed that we'd better get up at six, get showers, enjoy (as far as that proved to be possible) the "free" breakfast the motel offered, and then get moving.

Knowing that we were again going to be up early, we agreed that we should get to bed—even though it was still early. Saying that she wanted to check her e-mail before bed, Vicki got out her laptop, sat down at the desk, hooked up to the motel's ethernet, and logged into her university mailbox. While she did that, I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

When I came out, she was done with her email. She took her nightie—the one I'd seen her in the evening before—into the bathroom and changed. While she was in there, I set the alarm clock on one of the tables between the beds for six, stripped to my boxer shorts, and got into bed.

She came out a few minutes later, said good night, and turned in. As the last one up, she had to turn the lights off.

I heard her sheets rustle as she climbed into her bed, and her voice came to me, "Good night, Bry. I love you."

I answered her, "Good night, Vicki. I love you, too." She would understand that as brotherly love, I was almost certain. Nevertheless, there was a thrill of doubt and a twinge of guilt that she might understand that I meant something deeper—something I shouldn't feel for her.

Although her shorty nightie hadn't helped my equilibrium, there wasn't anything, in that small room, that I could do about that. In those confined quarters, I couldn't play with myself and recover my equilibrium at the expense of making the guilt worse.

==||*||==

The clock sounded, in unwelcome obedience to its setting, at six. Vicki got to it before I did and turned it off.

We lay there for a few minutes collecting our wits. With the return of consciousness came the embarrassing realization that I'd have to be very careful about getting out of bed, lest my morning wood pop out of my shorts in front of her.

That was a problem I hadn't foreseen. Sharing a motel room with my cute little sister had turned out be more complicated than I'd expected. But the solution was straightforward; all I had to do was be gentlemanly.

"You can have the bathroom first," I said, "provided you don't dawdle."

She'd always had an easier time than I getting up mornings. She hopped (well, dragged herself) out of bed and vanished into the bathroom. Acting with unaccustomed speed for so early an hour, I got out of bed and put my pants on—thus concealing my problem effectively enough for the few seconds it would take me to disappear into the bathroom after she came out. And once in the bathroom, the act of peeing—which was the other thing that was currently foremost in my mind—would solve the problem.

Then I remembered that she was going to take a shower, and I cursed myself for hurrying out of the sack. But the haste had been one of my better ideas, it turned out, because she came out almost immediately, saying, "You can pee and get your shower. I'll get mine after."

We hit the road at about a quarter past seven—only a few minutes later than planned.

==||*||==

Our second day on the road turned out to be a lot like the first—except that we'd pretty much exhausted our store of material for conversation. The weather was a bit better than it had been the day before, less overcast, though colder, and traffic was light. Our northern strategy was working. But then, although our time on the road was about the same as it had been on our first day, this day seemed longer.

Thus, we were more tired when we got to Spokane than we'd been the day before when we'd gotten to Billings. Being more tired, we didn't put a lot of effort into finding a motel removed from the highway. We just drove on past the city and found one at an interchange that we thought was sufficiently out of the urban area that we would avoid paying city prices. It was around five-thirty, and dark, when we stopped.

When we returned to our room—which was pretty much a carbon copy of the room the night before—from supper, Vicki again wanted to check her email. We weren't as rushed about getting to bed that evening, because we would have only about five hours of driving the next day, and we wouldn't need to get up so early. Nevertheless, I did make use of the bathroom while she was looking at her mail.

I came out of the bathroom to find Vicki's head on the desk in her arms. As I came in, she raised her head and looked directly at me. Her eyes were red and swollen with tears. She wailed something that I didn't understand.

I rushed over, sat on the bed near her, and reached for her, "Vicki! What's wrong?" I asked.

Now I could see that she was angry, as well as sad. Her words proved it: "That miserable son of a bitch!" she said. "I even thought I liked the asshole!"

I couldn't remember ever hearing her use language like that, so I knew that something earth-shattering was going on. "Who?" I prodded her. "What is it?"

She wailed again and, getting out of her chair, came over to me. Automatically, my arms went out to her, inviting her to my embrace. Still wailing, she accepted my invitation and threw herself into my lap. She sat sideways there, wrapped her arms around me, put her head on my shoulder, and began to cry uncontrollably.

I hadn't a clue as to what the problem was. All that I could gather was that her tears were of mixed rage and despair. "Vicki," I pleaded with her, "tell me what's wrong so I can help you." Her only response was to cry on my shoulder, sobbing spasmodically. Evidently, there was nothing I could do for the moment but hold her and try to weather her storm—whatever had caused it—with her.

So for the next ten or fifteen minutes, I held her, patted her, stroked her, and spoke softly to her, trying to comfort her without knowing what the cause of her distress was or even whether I was being of any help. Slowly, whether from my efforts, from her own efforts, or just because she couldn't sustain those levels of mixed heartache and rage, she regained some control. When, at last, she was merely sobbing gently, I asked, diffidently, "Can you tell me about it? You know that I want to help you, don't you?"

She raised her head and sniffled. Pulling an arm from around me, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked through her tears at me. Nodding at me, she said, "I know. I'm a mess. I'm sorry. But I can't…" She put her head back on my shoulder and sobbed some more—less energetically than before, but again uncontrollably.

I guessed that "help it" were the missing words. I held her for a while longer, still speaking quietly to her, murmuring softly and meaninglessly, trying to comfort her and to get some sense out of her at the same time.

This second episode wasn't as violent as her first had been, and it cleared up more quickly—especially now that she was trying to calm down. After a few more minutes, she managed to pull herself together, though her body was a knot of tension and her breathing was shallow and rapid. She raised her head, looked at me through those teary eyes, and said, "I'm sorry you had to deal with that, Bry. It was James. He sent me a really… shitty… 'Dear Jane' e-mail. It took me completely by surprise."

"He broke up with you by e-mail? What a coward!" I figured that it must have been a really shitty e-mail; she wouldn't have used that word lightly. But I hadn't even begun to understand what the guy had done.

She put her head down on my chest. "That's bad enough," she said, "but there's worse. If that had been all of it, I don't think I would have come apart." She took a deep breath, held herself tightly against me, and I felt some of the tension leave her. I needed to know the rest of it, but I sensed that the best thing I could do for her at the moment was just to be there. So I held her and patted her.

Gradually, she loosened up and her breathing slowed. I was beginning to think that she'd fallen asleep on my lap when she spoke, softly: "He doesn't want to be involved with me any more. He said I'm a whore and a slut because I fucked him when we weren't married."

"He really said that?" I asked her. It was a rhetorical question; I'd never heard her say 'fuck' before, and from the way she'd emphasized it, I knew that it had to be his word.

"He said more than that, Bryan. He said that he guessed a slut like me must have fucked dozens of other guys, so I'm not good enough for him because he wants to marry a virgin."

Now my blood was boiling. "When I get my hands on that son of a bitch, I'll—"

She stopped me in mid-threat by placing her hand over my mouth. "No." she said. "You won't. I won't help you find him, so you aren't going to get your hands on him. But more importantly, he isn't worth the trouble that you'd be in for what you would do to him. And I forbid it." She looked directly into my eyes as she uttered those last four words. I didn't know what she'd do about it if I ignored her prohibition, but I did know that—much as I would enjoy beating the shit out of that asshole—I really didn't want to find out.

She went on, "Not to protect him, Bry, but to protect you. And it's my own fault. I trusted him, and he turned out to be a piece of slime. How could I have been so dumb!"

"You weren't dumb," I said. "I've known guys like him. He's a snake who preys on the best women. He lies to them and seduces them. And after he gets his jollies, he carves another notch on his bedpost and abandons them. It isn't your fault that he lied to you. You just met the wrong guy at the wrong time."

She snuggled up against me. "I'm not as sure as you are, Bry," she said. "I was too trusting. And I'm not one of 'the best women.' But thanks for the thought."

We sat there, holding each other in silence for a few minutes. I felt her chest rise and fall as she breathed, and her heartbeat was strong against me.

As the rhythms of her body entranced me, pangs of guilt rose within. I knew that I shouldn't be happy that her relationship hadn't worked out, but I'd been more than a little jealous of the guy. And, as much as I hated him for the pain he'd caused her, I was grateful to him for being such an asshole. I don't think I'd ever before experienced such a bag of mixed feelings all at once.

While I was dealing with those emotions, she raised her head and looked at me. "He told me he loved me, Bryan. And I thought I was in love with him." She paused. I could tell that her tears were close again, but she controlled them and continued, "A few weeks ago, we even talked about maybe making a life together. That was when I decided that I wanted to share a bed with him." Then she snorted, and, with more than a trace of bitterness in her voice, she said, "Actually, we did it in my bed—not his. Both times. Shouldn't I get to carve the notch?"

I squeezed her. "One of these days, he'll get what he deserves. I won't give it him, because you're right that he isn't worth it. But someday he'll hurt a woman who has a brother or a father who doesn't see it that way. And then he'll get a hard lesson."

She looked up at me again, and, for the first time since I'd sat on the bed, she smiled at me. "I'd like to be there for that," she said.

So would I, I thought.

Still smiling at me, she went on, "You keep being the best big brother ever, Bry. I'm really glad that you're here for me." She squeezed me again.

"Breaking up is hard, even with a snake," I said, squeezing back. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not sorry about breaking up. Not a bit! I'm better off without him." She was vehement, and I was proud of her for recognizing that already. I didn't know if, in her place, I could have. She went on, in a more matter-of-fact way, "I'm upset, but not about that. I'm upset because I thought—I really thought—that I had something good. That I'd found somebody. But it was all a lie, and he's a snake!"

"You know," I said, "the word 'snake' sounds a lot more like my little sister speaking than the words you used a while ago. I think you're already feeling more like yourself."

"I think I am," she said. "But I feel so stupid!" She put her head back down on my chest. After a moment or two, she relaxed and took a deep breath. And then, tightening her arms around me another time, she whispered, "…and so used."