JJ Maybank doesn't do well with change, especially when it comes wrapped in pearls and cashmere and carries the perfume of Figure Eight bullshit. His dad had somehow shacked up with a real-life Stepford Wife on the other side of the island. A polished princess named Amelia who smiled with her teeth but never her eyes.

Then, of course, there was you. The cherry on top. Amelia's kid—the same age as JJ but worlds apart in every other way.

To JJ, the house feels like a museum. Cold. Pristine. He doesn't show up much, nor does he knock when he comes into the house, even if he doesn't consider it his home. It sure as hell doesn't feel like one with all the furniture straight out of an edition of Centurion. When he does show up, it's always late.

There's a light on in the living room. He knows it's probably you. That's the only reason he doesn't hesitate to come in. The door doesn't slam, but it closes like he doesn't care to worry about waking someone. Muddy boots, salt on his skin, tension in his shoulders. You've given up on asking him to take his shoes off when he slumps down into the armchair, head tipped back.

It's not the first night you've spent with him like this. JJ sitting silently in the same room as you, sticking out like a a sore thumb among the clean furniture. His friends would probably laugh if they saw him so quiet. You're watching some reality TV show he doesn't recognise (nor does he care to.) Eventually, he can't take it, scoffing under his breath.

That's the JJ Maybank way of saying he wants attention. You shoot him a look.

"You ever think about how easy it is for you?" He asks after a moment.

"What?"

"This house. Your mom. This life." His voice has an edge to it. "I don't know, man. You just... exist in it. Like you were built for it."

You don't even know what he means. "Where is this even coming from?"

He laughs bitterly. "Where do you think?"

Right. "I'm not the reason he left you," you defend yourself, fiddling with the blanket draped over your legs.

"No," he snaps. "But you're the reason he wanted to."

"He's your father—"

JJ nods in return, all mock-sincere with a sardonic smile. "Yeah. And I got the version that drinks himself stupid and throws punches when he's bored. You? You got Dad 2.0. Nice shirt, dinner at 6, sober since May."

You don’t reply. What the hell are you even supposed to say to that? He barrels on.

"It's not fair. Watching the man who used to beat the shit out of me turn into somebody else. For you. For your mom. For this fucking house."

"I never asked for that."

"I know. And that's the worst part. You didn't ask for any of it. You just got it." A beat of silence follows, the only sound heard the rain pattering down across the island outside and your own pulse hammering in your ears. "You want to know the truth?" He doesn't wait for an answer.

"Sometimes I look at you," he says, "and I want to be near you so bad it makes me sick. And other times, I hate you so much I can't breathe." The silence that follows is agonising. A conflict of emotions tears through you both. Anguish, jealousy, longing.

"... I know it's not your fault," he adds, quieter. "But that doesn't make it hurt any less."