Half-Cousin
With divorces, remarriages, and at least one parent who joined a cult, their true bond was hard to trace. None of this half-ness could prevent battered luggage from making its way to the five-bedroom house Lydia shared with her newly minted university pals. Of course, the half-cousin could crash for the weekend. They'll have dinner; it'll be fun. Of course, Lydia had spoken with the signature optimism her family had come to expect. Her disarming, heavy optimism.
Her stomach flipped in anticipation, unhelped by the impatient aroma of sautéd spice. One of the ramekins had broken and was replaced with just another dish—not circular, nor three inches in diameter, and certainly not the same shade of off-white. The glazed texture infuriated with its uniqueness. Lydia began with the others - filling them one by one with chutneys. It was not the moment to discuss how the household could acquire a new, complete set. She'd bring it up tomorrow. She'd mention how her parents purchased the cookware, ceramics, and appliances to use, of course. However, her parents would comment if things repeatedly broke or went missing. They should work harder as a household—she’d say that last bit with a smile. And she could offer to pick up the drinks next time they’re at the campus bar. But that could end up costing more than just replacing the ramekins herself. She sighed, regretting the late-afternoon caffeine. Perhaps the final dish - the freak - wouldn't be needed this evening after all.
Jason—the perfectly petite math major— skipped from one pot to another, stirring and sprinkling. "Does she like her life spicy?" he winked.
"I'm not sure. I could ask? Although, she hasn't texted to say she's running late or anything. To cover all eventualities, make it mild to medium-mild." Lydia rechecked her phone. "Should I be more concerned?"
"Well, is it in character for her to be late?" Jason asked.
Lydia's nerves further frayed - not because she believed her half-cousin was hurt or missing. Lydia's indelibility had the sharp simplicity of a Bauhaus scarf, but no pattern was radical compared to her half-cousin, London. "My dad says she marches to the beat of her own drum circle," Lydia repeated as her mom guffawed in her inner ear.
"She's fine. Just have a glass!" Jason helped by uncorking a bottle.
A single knock. Lydia sped towards the door. The low sun poured through its wired glass pane- glazed and crisscrossed. An awkward entrance, of course. She squinted through the orange light at London's neutral expression. Her half-lidded eyes and flat brows. Her head was in her constant curious tilt, which rarely vocalized questions. The decade-older London loomed, as she always did, in her thrifted outfit and long limbs. She missed—or dismissed—the custom of removing her sneakers. And then she waited until Lydia spoke.
"How was your flight" Lydia beamed her new adult smile.
London shrugged in reply. "You're taller," she said.
"I've been the same height since I was thirteen. I always wanted to stretch out, but it never happened! When was the last time we saw each other—two, maybe three years ago?"
"No idea," London said, her lithe frame balanced on one hip.
"Are you looking forward to the weekend?"
"Sure," London replied as if offering the concept of her excitement as placation. As if Lydia had been the one to invite her instead of the other way around. As if Lydia needed her to enjoy her weekend. Which, of course, she did. In a tiny act of retribution, Lydia ignored courtesy and did not offer to carry London's case into her bedroom despite its cumbersome placement.
"Follow me. Jason is cooking. I hope you like curry; his mom's actually Sri Lankan. I told him not to make it too spicy 'cause I wasn't sure if you like heat?" Lydia steered her through the oak-wrapped hallway as London left her preference for spice unsaid. Instead, she stared at the copious wood paneling. Prompting Lydia to giggle in shame - unsure if London found it characterful or just plain weird. "The husband of the couple who owned it before us was an amateur carpenter. He built all this himself. But it's also like - who couldn't? Right? He just banged plywood up on every wall." She finished with her giggle.
"Your parents bought this whole house?" London asked.
"Yeah. After my first year in dorms, my mom thought about buying a place, and dad suggested I rent out rooms to friends. In a few years, when we move out, they'll renovate it for themselves and have a pied-à-terre in the city."
"I'm not sure a house this size classifies as a pied-à-terre," London replied.
"Right?" Lydia's lips stretched as the weekend's hours menaced before her. As she opened the living room door, notes of lemongrass teased from the open-plan kitchen. Bottles of wine were opened and poured. Only a few sips of Jason's red remained. A thought caught in Lydia's throat—must she request London to keep the alcohol quiet from her parents, or was it understood?
Meanwhile, Emma and Dan - the engineering couple who met at orientation, ran marathons, and have shattered and re-glued three times in one year - sat so close it was hard to tell where her shoulder ended and his began. Dan was the kind of nerd who didn't realize he was beautiful— due to his family sharing his features, but wonky. Emma habitually patted her flat stomach when she talked about her running stats. Lydia had been undecided about Emma - until one dead night when she discovered Emma vomiting blood at the prospect of Dan taking his love elsewhere.
"Meet my half-cousin: London," Lydia presented.
"Hi!" The couple blinked like four eyes on one puppet.
Jason offered his hand with panache, "I've been dying to meet the owner of such a name! Were you born in London?"
"The one in England?" London asked.
"Yeah," Jason replied.
"Never been to any of them. Neither did my mom before she died." She said as she snatched a poppadom and crunched. Jason's smile tightened. It was unclear if this was due to her half-cousin's swagger or because she was eating a poppadom dry. His eyes glanced at the accoutrements - falling on the ignored lime pickle.
"My parents love London - they go every spring. It's the best time of year to visit," Jason said.
She faintly nodded in reply, almost undetectable. Even though her mom had never been, London was aptly named -she was the living embodiment of an indifferent crowd navigating puddles.
Jason returned to the simmering meat, "It's just us. Kate is with the band tonight, and Josh texted; he has ski practice. Shall we eat?"
"Yeah!" Lydia smiled and turned to London, "Are you hungry?"
London offered her trademark shrug as she chomped through her second poppadom.
"You can leave your bag in the hallway for now," Lydia said as she reminded herself it was only a suitcase.
London sat at the solid wooden table and awaited service as she muttered, "How do you practice skiing when there's no snow?" Her disdain felt placed, a stacked brick separating her from the twenty-year-olds.
Lydia, of course, giggled as she helped Jason plate his aromatic fare. While he matched London's tone, “ya know, I’ve never asked." This was enough of that for anyone concerned.
London sat still. In the pre-phone era, such an act would've meant nothing, but now it read as vaguely confrontational—as if she expected entertainment from elsewhere. By the world. Or by them. The engineering couple made the rounds with wine, then slipped back into their screens as they were normals.
As Lydia domed rice, she remembered London's Instagram. It sat there with only one picture on her grid - of a field. It stretched from the back of a house. With a scattering of potted plants in the foreground—unrefined, with the occasional browned leaf—sitting atop tiles in need of a power wash beside limp furniture. Ikea, or worse. This back garden rolled into grazed, flat land. Beyond its vastness, it wasn't beautiful. Intimidating, humbling - of course. But Lydia classified this landscape as unphotogenic. Other than that, London was inactive and untagged. Only once had Lydia spotted her beneath a story - it gave Lydia a restless night, knowing London had seen that sun-sick, bloodshot snap of Emma and her at Coachella. Why hadn't London commented on her outfit? Didn't she admire her metallic bikini? The second-hand boho disk belt of her half-cousin's generation? Why hadn't her thumb offered the sacred gesture of a deep red heart?
Once the others joined London at the table built for livelier gatherings, the meager five passed pol sambol and lunu miris. Lydia and Jason spelled out which condiment had chili flakes or coconut, etc., as Emma and Dan devoured without pause. Lydia could feel them adding digits to their bulking caloric intake. She hoped to avoid the customary bloating conversation while Emma's hand rubbed an almost flat stomach.
"Did you go to university, London?" Jason asked as the chewing leveled off.
"Yeah," she replied.
"Not only did London go to university, she got a full scholarship! Everyone in the family could not shut up about it. I was so happy for her. Didn't you almost get full marks on your SATs or something?"
"I did," London replied, voice flat. The others refused to react.
"What did you major in?" Emma piped up, searching for answers to her own scatty academic career. The others had begun to suspect she remained in engineering only to avoid spewing blood.
"Book Arts."
Dan was shocked, "That's a major?" His pout was so perfect it came off as judgment— the others had learned to look past it.
"Yeah," London said.
"Letterpress printing. Bookbinding. Typography." Lydia filled in, "Back then, it was a career. And my dad said she could pivot —do a masters in something else with that brain on her shoulders. We can all have phases, right? And yeah, at the time, it could have been a career."
London's head held its stoicism, save for a flicker in her eye.
The table was alive with silence. Generational divides quietly sifted. Lydia waited to be asked about her own future. But London seemed uninterested—the indifference of having completed uni without romanticizing it as a heyday or a promised land.
"I was thinking of double majoring in math and econ." Lydia couldn't stop herself.
"Is that what your dad wants?" London asked in her monotone way.
Lydia's head spun,"Why would you say that? I've always been really good at math.”
London completed her nod.
"So, what are you up to these days?" Lydia needled. She was, after all, always interested in London.
"I'm fixing up a van with my partner. To live in. And I'm doing another degree. Online."
"Van-life!' Jason sparkled, "So, tell us all about your partner!"
"Janinda organizes local aid efforts at the library," London said as Lydia watched her serve herself a second helping.
"I bet he's hot - they've always been hot," Lydia clarifies to the group. "How'd you two meet?"
"In a dog park. I was looking after this dog that belonged to this girl I met at some party- she went to Vietnam for six months, so. It swallowed some street meat, and Jay helped. Tried to pull it out of its mouth."
"Was the dog okay?" Emma's eyes widened.
"Yeah," London had a deep breath; as she exhaled, she continued, "I wondered if it wasn’t street meat at all. And instead, the dog ate a condom.” She stated it as if she were reading the ingredients on a flourless cake.
"Is he Indian?" Jason asked.
"Sri Lankan," London said as she reached for the pol sambol. Her eyes did not lift from the round ramekin - one of the matching ones. The serving spoon was heaped and emptied twice. Lydia felt awkward. She attempted to decipher if this was a valid feeling as she watched London eat. Her lips closed and eyes downcast, with a thoughtful rhythm, like a goat chewing cud in a field. Eventually, London's eyes lifted and focused on the four-eyed puppet. "How much is your tuition?"
Dan's expression elongated along his sharp chin. "Almost 85 thousand a year."
Her mouth opened. Lydia assumed this was as close as London's jaw ever got to hitting the floor. London visibly waited for Dan to backpedal but he didn't. His brow popped. His cute nose scrunched. And the two held eye contact long enough for Emma to place her stomach-stroking palm on his thigh.
"It's a feeder school for Brown," Emma almost whispered.
"I don't know what that means," London said.
"If you do well, you can transfer and—"
London cut her off, "You can buy your way into the Ivy League?"
Emma was aghast, "I mean, no —"
"Actually, Brown costs an equivalent amount- maybe more," Lydia interjected, as Jason's eyes drilled into her for bringing this half-family into their space. A protective cloak had been draped over Emma by the men—as if her knack for placating the male gaze, both straight and queer, meant she needed shielding from other women.
By contrast, Lydia never drunk cried, let alone vomited. All her liquids were locked inside, metabolizing. She never tipped a flirtatious shoulder; that training was never on the agenda. And she didn't favor the fever-dream, glittery cotton candy that Emma had worn in that fateful Coachella photo. Lydia was an East Coast math-econ major who spent her time in the loud desert worried about putting in contacts without dust invading her eye socket. It could have led to an infection requiring an emergency evacuation. In the helicopter, or whatever, she'd have to ask Emma to call her parents, and they would tell her to use the other credit card—the black one in the back of her wallet. Next time they sat around a table, her mom might get winy and ask if Lydia had met anyone at Coachella, or if she’d been behaving like a frat bro with no goals. Lydia would remind herself to add flirtatious shoulder practice to the agenda. Her dad would ignore her mom’s snark and pivot to that article about how girls were flooding into the Ivies, often outperforming boys; his Yale-nose would twitch. Her mom would bounce her crisp, blonde soft helmet. Lydia would say she’d read it while scratching her eye—eye injuries do take a long time to heal.
Lydia turned to face London—aware she had co-opted London's disinterested tomboy aesthetic—and tried to sound neutral, "What online degree are you doing?"
"I'm becoming an accountant. That's the goal."
“A goal?" Lydia spat too loud.
"Is that a wise choice of career in the late-capitalism, AI era?" Jason asked, hardened.
Lydia quickly said, "London, you sound like you're really carving out a nice life for yourself." London did not reciprocate. She didn't comment on Lydia's life—whether it sounded nice or carved out. She only sat and, perhaps, awaited entertainment.
The sting arrived behind Lydia's eyes. It surprised her. It surprised her university pals. Her voice trembled with held-back emotion, "I'm doing well too, ya know?" as her giggle twisted sinister, she used both hands—one to finish her glass, the other to reach for the bottle. Dan interrupted and poured for her. "Do you remember when I was like ten years old?" Lydia didn't wait for an answer, "We tried to visit you. You were in Tuscaloosa - that time. But you didn't let us come to you." She turned sharply to Jason, "Typical London -we never knew where she lived. What she was up to. God, it drives my dad mad!" Her head drunkenly centered. She returned to holding court -lost between being a queen and a jester. "Instead, for half-cousin bonding- I guess- you picked me up in your car. The back seat was filled with so much shit. A damp towel was crammed under the passenger seat and kept touching my foot. But I was so damn happy to do anything with you. And… you took me to Walmart." Lydia flattened the W.
"It must have been after my mom died," London said. "Your mom and dad never liked her."
Lydia flushed and bit back, "Well, that depended on if she was off her meds."
The others froze mid-breath, mid-motion. But London only tilted her head, just slightly more. "True," she said. Years levitated between them. Lydia's temple throbbed. She couldn't quite tell which conclusions were hers and which had been filtered through adults—parents, strangers, waitstaff—exhausted by another fit, in another diner, in another city. The only time Lydia and her parents stepped foot in a diner. But always ended the same: her dad's large hand yanking Lydia up, half a mac and cheese left steaming in the booth. Back to the rental car. Driving once more—away from London and London's mom.
"What happened at Walmart?" Dan asked, his beauty blinding him to a table relieved it had been put to bed.
"She sat on a plastic chair at the front," Lydia continued. "Gave me ten bucks. I bought chocolate milk and a navy spaghetti strap. I cherished that cami for years. It was her money, so technically, it was a gift. I was always weird about her—I didn't have a sister, ya know?" Lydia's voice wavered in and out of its highest register. "But the bit I really remember—as if it were yesterday—was when we climbed back into her car." The sand of the half-cousins' time had begun to pour freely, forming a pyramid of unsorted history. Lydia faced London, "You had this huge set of keys. So many dangling keychains. It took up half your bag. One was big and fluffy and green. There was a whistle. And those tacky gas station ones—the cheap kind. One was a plastic frame that you could pop in a photo. A picture of some pretty guy surrounded by sticker hearts. And only one key- the car key. Oh fuck, London, I thought it was so cool. Even with the stench of old fries and whatever perfume you loved back then. I'd just love to watch it bang against the dashboard as you reversed."
Jason returned from the kitchen with a paper towel—the lack of a tissue box announcing their age. Lydia dabbed her eyes and thanked him as he scooted his chair closer to her.
Meanwhile, London's gaze had turned away from the others and was set past the sliding glass doors and out to the rose garden. She blinked into the dark horizon. Lydia's rage simmered at this expected neutrality. London finally spoke, "Did the husband make that outside furniture?"
"We think so," Emma replied as she shared a loaded glance with Dan, both insecure about their role as rubberneckers.
"Lydia, I don't remember that at all. Are you sure that was me?" London's eyes lingered on the timeworn woodwork. "Ya know, I ended up in Tuscaloosa for university because it was the only place I enjoyed living with my mom." Her tone was even more sedated. "Our spell in Tuscaloosa: we lived in a house. With doors and a back garden and everything. She dated Bill, who..." she searched through her feelings about Bill, "...talked to me. None of the others did." The formerly taciturn now held court. If Dan, Emma, and Jason had been strung between the half-cousins, the tug yanked hard, bringing Lydia to her knees. "Bill had an old house and this land that stretched out forever. More land than I'd ever seen someone own—who wasn't a rich person. I guess he was officially a farmer."
"Bill the farmer; epic," Jason clicked his fingers.
"My mom was calm at that house. She'd sit on the porch reading one of Bill's leather-bound books —writers going on about manor houses and wind-whipped heaths." It occurred to Lydia that London had a disdain for England after years of being posited the same question Jason had. "He owned a few animals. Mostly goats. They ate the grass near the house until it died. Bill would come out on the porch, already mad at those goats. Not in a scary way. Just... confused about why the hell they weren't down the field where there was more to eat. He'd nudge me with his elbow and go, 'Move them,' like I knew how to move goats." She laughed; it was higher than expected. "So then Bill, with his big beard and tank top, would show me. He'd flap his arms like a scarecrow come to life. Or fake a kick at their butts. The goats would move—for twenty minutes or so. Then they'd come right back up to the porch. They never learned the advantage of the further, green pasture," A nostalgic smile lifted London's face. Around her sat the twenty-somethings concerned about how—or if—they were meant to respond. Or did none of them know a single thing about goats.
Jason reached for the bottle to refill both half-cousin's glasses. Lydia placed her hand over hers and took in her new adult knuckles. The battle scars of childhood now seemed out of place along her hands—she needed to buy hand moisturizer, go to salons, and take responsibility. Emma and Dan offered to do the dishes, and the others accepted. It didn't feel like an imposition—any time they could demonstrate cohabitation symbiosis, it read as foreplay. Jason managed to twinkle into London's personal space - she accepted the offer of a hug as much as a cat would. He held on. And Lydia watched.
Later, London borrowed Lydia's toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, face wash, toner, face cream, and comb. They stood close in her ensuite bathroom, painted a shade of walnut - the unrelenting earth tones. It was clear where one shoulder ended and the other began. Internally, Lydia self-flagellated. Why did she tell London that Walmart story—it was laden with blame, and they both knew it. She'd hoped it would spark regret. But when had shame ever triggered interest? Amateur.
Instead, after dinner, London had remained cool. Poised. She slayed. She dripped. Was on point. Her vibe checked. As London was being all the things, Jason whispered to Lydia, "She is quite the character - isn't she?” His breath was hot on her ear, “Ya know, I slept in my car, once, when driving back from Montauk - after Linus and his cocktails…” He spoke as if London's whole life was a white pair of shoes after Labor Day: "When I woke up, all crooked, I felt insane too,” he winked. He shouldn’t have held her.
As Lydia took her turn at the bathroom sink, she avoided her reflection. Her own eyes wouldn't let her avoid her desperate question. It busted out, ”Do you know our exact family connection?" Apologetically, optimistically, she waited. London paused, her feet squared on the earth, but she still would not offer to move her suitcase from the hallway.
"My mom was your dad's sister."
"Half-sister?" Lydia clarified.
London did her nod, and with that, she heel turned and sat on the bed. Still.
Lydia's eyes couldn't leave London's profile, framed above her foaming toothbrush, moving to and fro. Was London still thinking about that garden outside Bill's house?
Moments later, Lydia dug out a set of matching pajamas. London held hers with a preciousness that Lydia promised herself she would embody. That same subtle, gawked expression London gave at 85 thousand. After a pause, she asked if they were from Lydia's parents, and it was Lydia's turn to nod - yes, her parents gift her three sets of oversized, polished silk, long-sleeved sleepwear every December. These pajamas have never been worn to chase goats down a field.
London glided them onto her body as Lydia refused to allow the moment to be uncomfortable. She pulled back her covers. She said she would use the sofa so London could have a good night's sleep. Lydia hovered by the door until her half-cousin's eyes shut, the back of her palm nestled against her cheek. She seemed calm.
And with that, Lydia entered the hallway, cocooned by timber. She wondered what was behind all that wood paneling for the last time. She removed from her purse her extensive ball of keys —mostly ornamental. A bitsy bear dangling from its neck. A keychain from the Joshua Tree co-op. A mini whistle. A useless hairbrush. And the keys to the house.
She removed only her car fob and placed the rest of the keys and keychains on the side table. Then Lydia picked up London's suitcase and stepped out into the night. The cousins' new lives began as the door to the carpenter's house—five bedrooms, an open-plan living room painted in organic tones, with a manicured garden of perfect plants and heavy wooden furniture—shut quietly behind Lydia.
Claire Leona Apps is a BAFTA talent known for dark, cross-cultural stories. Her debut feature, And Then I Was French, drew comparisons to Andrea Arnold. Her work spans BBC-aired shorts, fiction in Permafrost, and an Audible Original podcast launching in 2026. She’s directed Francesca Annis and Rebecca Hall.
