Page 3 of Don’t Fall for your Best Friend's Brother

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Emma

Nobody told me about the jet lag.

I knew about the five-hour time difference between New York and London. I even found it pretty cool to land in JFK at two-thirty in the afternoon after leaving London at eleven the same morning, even though the flight took nearly seven and a half hours. But nobody warned me how absolutely exhausted that time difference would make me. I’ve flown before, but never for such a distance.

The connecting flight took me to Albany, and Sylvie met me at the airport. Throwing her arms around me, she squealed with delight at my arrival, catching the attention of several passengers around us. While I felt completely embarrassed at all the eyes looking at us, Sylvie did not even seem to notice.

Sylvie Brecken is my best friend, even though we live about four thousand miles away from each other. It’s been three years now since we met. And, as though the universe colluded to make our meeting possible, it was in the most coincidental of circumstances.

While she was touring Europe with friends, I had been visiting my grandmother in Italy. Mum and Dad had divorced years ago, but I had always had a close relationship with my paternal grandmother. Being Italian, she felt strongly about family ties. Sylvie and her friends had managed to get themselves lost in one of the many piazzas, and I happened to be the person they asked for help.

Maybe it was her lively energy, or perhaps it was the fact that she was so open and unassuming. Whatever it was, I really liked her, and she really liked me, and the two of us just seemed to click immediately. I’m a firm believer that soulmates can refer to friendships as well as romantic relationships, not that I have a lot of experience with those. But I believe now, as I believed back then, that Sylvie is my soulmate.

Perhaps it’s because we’re opposites in many ways. Sylvie is bubbly and confident, whereas I am quiet and a little reserved. I’ve been called shy more times than I can remember, and perhaps I am. Having such a reserved upbringing—my mother is very religious and has dissuaded me from getting out into the big, wide world—I know I’m a little naïve. But then, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Though there are times when I wish I had Sylvie’s confidence and carefree spirit.

In the following months after we first met, we connected on social media, which quickly turned to bi-monthly FaceTime calls, and we’ve been best friends ever since.

Of course, Mum was entirely against me coming to America. She told me all the dreadful things that happen here. The murders, the burglaries, the shootings—thanks, Mum. Way to make a girl feel great about her trip. But I’m twenty-five, and I can’t stay put forever. Besides, after studying for four long years, all my effort paid off when I graduated with a First Class Honors Fine Arts degree. While I love my job working in an art gallery in London, I have been offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with a gallery in Albany. Only a fool would not grab it with both hands, and reserved I may be, but a fool I am not.

Not only are the salary and benefits far more than I could ever have imagined, but they are also willing to train me up to the position of an appraiser. The thing I want to do most in the world. Historical works of art excite and amaze me. To be able to spend all day examining them is my dream come true. Spending long hours in the presence of such works of art, to be in the presence of the spirit of those who created them, and to do that with no other company but my own, appeals to me. I suppose it suits my shy, reserved personality right to the ground, which is why I’ve taken such a huge decision to move to the States.

When we arrived at Sylvie’s house, I was feeling pretty tired. I couldn’t work out how long I had been traveling with the time difference, and to be honest, I was too exhausted to even try.

“You should go and lie down,” Sylvie suggested. “You’ve had a long flight. You’re bound to be tired.”

“But I feel dreadful,” I replied. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“We’re going to have plenty of time to catch up. Now come on,” she said, beaming as she ushered me up the stairs.

I’ll be honest; once my head hit the pillow on the huge, soft, comfortable bed in the guest room, any feelings of guilt for not spending more time with Sylvie completely disappeared, and I fell asleep immediately.

* * *

I feel groggy, like my head is full of cotton wool. My body feels heavy, and though I’m awake, I feel like I haven’t slept. I stretch my arms and yawn. It takes me a minute to open my eyes, and when I do, the first thing I notice is how dark it is.

What time is it?

Reaching for my phone on the bedside table, I squint at the bright numbers on the screen.

2:43am. Oh, my God.

I’ve slept right through the afternoon and into the night. How could I have been so tired? I push myself up in the bed, and immediately, I feel the hunger pangs in my stomach. My body probably doesn’t know what is going on. The last time I ate was on the flight from London. But that was… I shake my head. Nope. Trying to figure out the times, even now, is simply too much effort.

Moving to the edge of the bed, I wonder if I should go downstairs. As I sit and listen, all I can hear is silence. Can you really hear silence? I read a postulation somewhere that if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it really make any sound? Anyway, it’s no surprise that it’s so quiet. It is the middle of the night. But what am I supposed to do? I still feel lethargic, but not tired enough to go back to sleep. Besides, I’m hungry. My stomach growls, as though I need an audible reminder.

I’m sure no one will mind if I just go and make myself a cup of tea. I am going to be staying here for a while. When we arrived from the airport, Sylvie told me that I should treat their home like my own home, which is easier said than done. Just relaxing in another person’s home is not something I’m really good at. That has to do with the fact that I’ve never really stayed in anyone’s home before. Not anyone other than my own family, at any rate.

After turning on a small lamp, I rummage in my suitcase and find my favorite oversized hoodie. Throwing it on over my PJs, I take a deep breath, then open the bedroom door.

At least the stairs don’t creak. My descent is silent, and I only realize once I make it to the bottom that I was holding my breath the whole way down. It’s pitch-black in the hallway, and I give myself a second, letting my eyes adjust. Still, when I take my first couple of steps, I tentatively put my hand against the wall, trying to feel my way along.

Once I make it into the kitchen, I feel a little calmer. This room is situated at the back of the house. Somehow, that knowledge puts my mind at ease. As though, now that I’m here, I’m not going to wake anyone. I know Sylvie’s parents run a gas station and diner at the edge of Sharon Springs, the tiny town where they live. I can only imagine that they work hard, and would not appreciate their new houseguest, meaning me, pulling them from their beds. But it’s a huge house. Far bigger than our tiny house in London. I’d have to be making some noise to rouse them from their needed slumber.

As I stand there in the kitchen, I look around for a light switch. But I’m completely overwhelmed, not to mention confused, when, looking at the wall to my left, I see nine switches. They’re all staring back at me, nearly mocking me for my clueless expression.

Who on Earth needs nine light switches in one room?

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