“For the graduate. Took you long enough.” He sends me a smile before smacking the top of my cap. We look similar yet different, thank God. Dark, thick hair matches our light brown eyes, long lashes, and olive skin. Our similarities end there. Santi inherited a tall gene from a distant relative while I stopped growing by eighth grade. He rocks week-old stubble and a goofy smile while I prefer a more mischievous grin that matches the glint in my eyes. He works out seven days a week while I count climbing up stairs to get to class as my daily workout.
Santi’s phone rings and he steps away to answer it.
My mother poses me and takes more pictures. She and I look alike, all honey eyes, short stature, and hair with enough wave and volume to look good when I wake up.
“We’re extremely proud of you. Both of our babies are out doing good things in the world,” my mom says as she snaps a picture of me rolling my eyes. Her accent has a lull to it, a product of learning English from hotel guests at her job.
I groan when she smacks a big kiss on my cheek, leaving behind a smudge of her lipstick.
My dad mumbles about her needing to treat me like a grown woman. Look at me, now called a mature adult, all at the toss of a graduation cap. His smile reaches his brown eyes, wrinkles creasing at the corners as he looks down at me. He has thick hair that competes with Santi’s, a short beard, and a lean frame. Santi looks like a younger, more muscular version of our dad.
“Who wants to grab dinner?” my dad says while rubbing his belly.
Santi steps back toward us, looking paler than usual. He comes up to my side and whispers into my ear, “Sorry about this. But they’ll get pissed if they find out from someone who isn’t me.”
I look up at him, confused why he needs to say sorry.
Santi takes a deep breath before he breaks out a smile. “My agent just told me Bandini offered me a contract for next season.”
Well, shit.
Santi doesn’t need to steal my thunder when he robs the whole damn storm.
I place Santi’s green smoothie on the table next to his workout bench. Four measly ounces of juice mock me, the goopy evidence supporting how I belong nowhere near a kitchen for the unforeseeable future. Especially since green liquid still drips from the kitchen ceiling. What a mess. It’s all fun and games until I forget to put the cap on the blender, making contents splatter everywhere, including my hair and clothes.
“I don’t need you waiting on me hand and foot. You should be out having fun because we won’t be back home for a while.” He grunts as he lifts a weight above his chest.
“I want to make myself useful and not feel like I’m taking advantage of you for a free place to stay.” I fidget with my hands while he counts his lifts, his deep exhales filling the silence.
Sleek equipment gleams under the overhead lights, a testament to his commitment to Formula 1. His new home is a far cry from the bedroom we shared while growing up. This new one has six bedrooms, a personal gym, a mini movie theater, and an Olympic-sized pool. A whopping six thousand square feet.
He sighs. “Money isn’t a worry anymore.”
“I know, I know. But I want to make a name for myself because I can’t live in your shadow forever.” My hand itches to twirl a piece of my hair, but I resist the nervous tick.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget how his bank account has a ridiculous number of zeros. The first paycheck from F1 paid for my college in full. No questions asked. Santi didn’t blink when he signed the check like he expects to provide for our whole family now that he’s made it big, which can’t be further from the truth. We appreciate everything Santi does. Him wanting to help in whatever way he can comes from a meaningful place rather than a sense of obligation.
When we were younger, our parents worked two jobs to save up every penny for Santi’s racing career. My dad repaired karts as a side gig while my mom cleaned houses on weekends. Unlike most wealthy “trust fund” kids in F1, my parents are middle-class on a good payday. Santi made a name for himself without the financial backing or a famous pedigree. He finally has sponsors who believe in him and his skills, making life easier and racing a hell of a lot more fun.
“I want you to come to my races this season. You can take the year to figure out what you want to do next. Plus it’ll be fun because this is our chance to finally travel together.” He sends me a goofy smile from behind his barbell.
Santi gets to live out his fantasy of being a top F1 racer with Bandini—the top team in the sport. Driving for them is my brother’s dream come true. I didn’t hesitate to say yes when he asked me to join him because my big brother is basically a superstar. His bombshell of a revelation at my graduation a couple weeks ago stung, but I pushed past it because he had a valid reason of not wanting us to find out from paparazzi. Unlike other siblings, I don’t mind sharing the limelight.