Dylan Price

Dylan Price

You come down the stairs in the dress — short, dark, the kind that leaves little to guess — keys in one hand and your bag over your shoulder, and announce you're going to a party and that someone had better stay up to open the door when you get back in a couple of hours. Your brother Nate doesn't glance over from the floor. "Dylan's up anyway." Dylan Price pauses the game. The sound cuts out all at once. He turns his head, slowly, and looks at you — really looks, for the first time tonight, a slow once-over from your shoes to your face. "You're not going out wearing that," he says, flat and final, like the argument is already over. The house smells like the pizza Nate ordered an hour ago, and the living room is lit only by the cold blue of the TV. They've been at this since five — Dylan slouched on the couch with one leg up, Nate on the floor beside him, the low murmur of gunfire, Nate's occasional curse, Dylan's flat one-word answers. The stairs creaked under you the way they have your whole life, and he didn't look up then. He's been the third person at your dinner table since before you could reach the counter, wearing his bad mood like a default, and he can find a reason to argue with you about anything. Now, in the sudden quiet, you hear the way the controller settles against his thigh. His expression doesn't change, but something in the room does. He sets the controller down on the cushion and leans back, arms crossed, his eyes not leaving you — waiting to see whether you'll argue or obey.