She touches his arm. He leans in, first watching her face and any gestures she tries to make, then turns his ear to her for a whisper if necessary. She orders by pointing to the menu — for Brandon rather than the waiter. He does the speaking.

He barely smiles. Or pays attention to me. This is all either business or family-personal, and when he’s not chatting to my father about Life of Riley and the future, he’s communicating in his cute underground way with Bridget. She’s not subtle when she wants his attention. She’s tapped his arm, nudged his shoulder, and flicked his ear. It should be annoying but isn’t, and Dad laughs every time.

I can tell Bridget would be formidable if she had her voice. Phoebe told me as much. But seeing her here, now, missing her primary weapon, makes her kind of helpless. She’s in strange company with people she doesn’t know, in a setting that clearly neither of them is used to. And though she keeps a strong front, she also keeps her hand on Brandon’s sleeve more often than not. And he could ignore her. He could focus on my father. He could have left her at home. But he brought her instead. And even though I can tell she’s weaker than she’d like to be, Brandon is giving her strength.

I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. My eyes keep flicking to his, but he’ll barely look at me. And when I catch his eye, I’ll look at Bridget’s hand on his — a platonic partnership, like a ward and her protector. But Brandon doesn’t get what I’m asking — or what I’m commenting on without saying a word. To him, this isn’t noble. To Brandon, it’s all so of-course.

He came out of the foster system. He began with us as a construction worker. I don’t know without prying, but I can’t imagine he has much money right now … though that will change if he gets the promotion Dad told me he’s inches from handing over. I guess I’m more prejudiced than I thought because his innate nobility surprises me. Part of me expects him to be a brute, even though I know better.

But he watches over his sister.

Before I can stop myself, I wonder what it would be like for him to watch over me.

I look up in time to see Dad and Brandon chatting … and Bridget staring right at me. Her eyes are blue green, and a thin circle of dark eyeliner makes them pop.

It feels like if she’s been watching me watching Brandon for a while.

Have I been? I don’t know. I tried to follow their discussion for a while, but it’s only business in the vaguest way. Mostly, I’ve heard my father’s history, the company’s origins (including the original name, Mason and Crystal — two building materials representing my parents’ names), and more chatter that qualifies as idle rather than informational. Most of the time, I’ve wondered why I came, though I don’t regret or resent it. I’m surely not learning anything about operations.

Mostly, I’ve been watching the others.

And because Bridget is passive and my father is right beside me, the others is mainly Brandon.

She gives me a small smile, as if we’re sharing a secret. I smile back, but it’s a pale imitation of my usual tooth buster. I must look nervous. Docile. Like a little girl who has no business at the table with two titans and their slim, tall, beautiful sidekick.

She taps Brandon’s arm.

He turns to see what she wants, but that’s when my father’s head perks up.

“Ebon?” he says.

A man with dark hair and large eyebrows looks up from two tables over. He’s sitting across from a pretty woman with light-brown hair. The man’s eyes widen in recognition. He smiles and waves.

“That’s Ebon Shale,” Dad tells me. “Have I told you about Ebon?”

I shrug.

“We met on Aaron. The island, Aaron? As kids. When I had my summer job working the pier carnival.”

This sounds vaguely familiar, but it’s hard to concentrate. So I mumble something as he stands, making excuses to Brandon and Bridget.

I realize he’s about to leave the table to say hello — and judging by the way this Ebon guy is pulling out a chair and knowing my father’s tendency to chatter, he might be there for a while.

I’m about to be alone with Brandon and Bridget.

Bridget, who can’t talk.

And Brandon, whom I’m reluctant to talk to.

Bridget gives me another of those little smiles then stands to go. Probably to the powder room.

I start to rise, to say I’ll go with her, but she touches my shoulder for the first time.

And she’s gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brandon

LOOKING BACK, IT WAS PROBABLY a bad idea to prep Bridget for this dinner. Usually, I set expectations, like parents do for kids. Usually, if I don’t give her a primer on who we’ll be meeting and what they’re like — and hence how they might take offense to her unique and unvarnished brand of truth telling — she ends up embarrassing someone.

Not her.

Not me.

But whomever we’re talking to.

Her friends and our mutual friends know Bridget and have forgiven her. There’s a dip in any relationship with Bridget near the beginning, when most people don’t like her. But those who survive the dip without writing her off always come to love her. It’s a trial by fire.

I didn’t particularly want her doing that to my boss, who seems inches from promoting me to a better life, assuming I don’t screw it up. Or to his daughter, about whom someone like Bridget might see and announce many truths. Like maybe she’s a little too spoiled. Like maybe she should come down from her perch. Like maybe she’s too cute to be taken seriously and should … I don’t know … get some librarian glasses or something.

These are things Bridget will tell people she’s just met, straight to their faces. And she’s usually right, but nobody likes her for saying it. At first.

So I prepped her. I told her to keep her mouth shut in my most authoritative, please-don’t-ruin-this-for-me brotherly voice.

Like a blind person who finds her sense of hearing vastly improved, I’m sure prepping Bridget between her place and the restaurant only allowed her to become critical with a superhero precision.

And now she’s rising from the table. Giving me a little knowing smile. Offering Riley the same smile, as if this is all so obvious.

Ten seconds later, I realize she’s taken her purse. Suddenly, I’m terrified — I know exactly what my sister is up to.

“I’m … will you hold on a second?” I say to Riley, holding up a waiting finger.

Riley’s eyes are wide, and her mouth is a straight line. Like I’ve been setting off loud fireworks at the table instead of asking one little question. She nods, and I rush off after Bridget. Ironically, I hear Mason talking to his friends at the other table, telling the man jokingly that his (wife? girlfriend?) has never had a conversational filter.

Just like Bridget.

Who, robbed of her social weapons, seems to have adapted. Again like a superhero, bent on costing me this promotion in the interest of something she deems as more worthy.

I grab her arm halfway across the restaurant. My goal was to catch her before she reached the car and drove off to leave us alone, and I realize I’ve succeeded splendidly. For one, Bridget didn’t drive; I did. For another, she’s headed to the restroom.

She looks back at me, her eyes lit with curses. Not because she’s mad but because she feels the need to be vaguely insulting.

“Where are you going?”