Invisible To My Sister's Brother In Law

Serena.

Roman Miller has never smiled at me. Not once, in all the years I've known him as my sister's brother-in-law. I used to think it was just me. Now I know better, the man doesn't smile at anyone.

Though I have had a crush on him secretly.

I stand at the counter beside Mara, the heat of the gas cooker warming my arms as we work through the last of the dishes.

"I still haven't heard anything," I say. "Not from the hospitals, not the clinics, not anywhere else I applied. Weeks of nothing but silence. Not even a rejection."

Mara sets the lid down carefully.

"You can't give up that easily, Serena. Good things take time. Someone will surely see what you're worth."

"And if they don't?" I let out a short breath. "I might just go back to menial work so I can survive. At least it pays something. At least I'll not be idle and waiting."

"Don't say that." Her voice sharpens. "Promise me you won't decide anything until a few responses come back."

The words have barely left her mouth when a cry cuts through the kitchen. Mara's daughter, Kara, is wailing from the travel trolley behind us. Mara wipes her hands on a cloth, already moving.

"Excuse me. I have to feed the baby. She's hungry."

She's gone before she adds anything more.

I'm left alone with the half-cooked dishes, the pots still simmering. I stare at everything left to carry out and wonder what year I'll finally finish all of this. Without an extra pair of hands, I might be here longer than I planned. I start cooking.

Mara doesn't come back.

From the living room, I hear the high voices of my in-laws and my sister, arguing about something that does not sound intriguing at all. Once I am done, I start setting the dining table.

Then the main door bursts open. Roman walks in.

He closes the door behind him, sweaty and disoriented, pulling every eye in the room toward him.

His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, like he's finished running a marathon. He's always late to every family dinner without fail, but tonight the lateness feels different.

He mutters something that might be an apology and drops into a chair like it's the easiest thing to do. His hands, I notice, aren't quite steady.

My eyes stay on him longer than they should, watching the line of his shoulders beneath his damp shirt, the way his jaw works.

I catch myself staring and look away, annoyed at my own pulse for reacting to a man who has never once looked back. He hasn't even glanced my way yet, but I am dying to speak to him.

"The meals are ready. Everything's set. Come and eat," I call toward the living room.

They come, and soon chairs scrape against the floor. Everyone compliments me on how good everything smells, how long it must have taken for me to cook everything.

Mara scolds herself for leaving me alone in the kitchen for so long, but I don't mind. Of course, I do.

Everyone talks except Roman. He stares past the plates, past the voices, as if the people around him don't exist at all. His jaw is set, his mouth a flat line.

While everyone starts to eat, he only picks at his food.

Mara finally breaks the tension.

"We should start planning something for Kara's second birthday. I want something big and unforgettable."

"We should keep it low-key. It will be easier to plan, and the cost of the celebration will be less," Ethan disagrees.

"I agree with Ethan. This will put less pressure on the couple," I add.

Roman says nothing. He chews slowly, eyes fixed somewhere past the far edge of the table. Until his father sets down his fork and clears his throat.

"Roman. How's the football going? The club's been on a losing streak recently, and you're supposed to help the club as a star. Why do the results keep getting worse? What have you done to rectify it?"

The air at the table drops. I catch the shift in Roman's face. He is starting to get angry, but no one knows.

His father presses further, his voice climbing. "Your recent performances haven't been what they should be. You can't keep calling yourself a footballer if you can't string together a win. You are nothing but a disgrace."

"That's enough. Not at this table," his mother warns.

Roman pushes his chair back without a word and walks out. His father's anger doesn't cool with him gone. If anything, it lingers in the silence he leaves behind.

Dinner draws to an end without him.

When the dishes are finally cleared, I step outside to empty the trash. That's when I see him. He's sitting at the edge of the outdoor bench, listening to music, staring at nothing.

I sit down beside him without waiting to be asked. He turns the volume down, but he doesn't look at me. Just the same way he hasn't looked at me in years.

Sometimes I wonder if he'd even recognize my face in a crowd. And somewhere in my heart, a little stupid part of me has always wanted him to.

"You look good with the new haircut," I try, reaching for a conversation we've never really had.

"Thank you." A pause, then, "You're Mara's little sister, right?"

Something in me deflates more than it should. Though he's not wrong because that's exactly what I am to him. Mara's little sister.

The only thing connecting us all. Yet I am pained that he only sees me that way since all these years.

He finally turns his head, giving me a flat, assessing look, like he's deciding if I'm worth talking to or not.

The look is insulting, and I nearly regret not going straight back inside.

"Did that question hurt you?" he asks.

"No," I lie. "I was just trying to be nice to you. It doesn't hurt anyone to be nice."

Every instinct tells me to leave. Any reasonable person would walk away after being handed cold indifference like that. Instead, I sit a moment longer, stubbornly waiting for him to say something worse.

"Serena."

Mara's voice cuts through from inside, saving me from whatever humiliation was coming next. I'm on my feet and moving before I can think twice, heading back into the house without looking behind me.

An hour later, I climb into a cab home. When it pulls up outside my building, I pay, step out, and head upstairs. Inside, I switch on my laptop and scroll through my inbox the way I've done every night for weeks.

One subject line stops me cold.

I've been offered a sports psychologist position at Chestfield Football Club.

The same club where Roman plays.

My hand freezes on the trackpad. Of all the places I applied to.