Page 6 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

Lizzie

For two years, I’ve barely left my room, and now I’m sitting in a crowded coffee shop attached to a weed store waiting for the older brother I barely know to swoop in and rescue me.

I feel pathetic. Maybe I am pathetic, I don’t know. I rub my right thigh instinctually, trying to knead out the pain I know will be there sooner or later. I can barely walk for ten minutes without limping, and I can’t go through a whole day without at least a little bit of pain.

That’s been my life, ever since the accident, one painful day after another. It’s gotten easier, or maybe I’ve gotten better at tolerating it, I don’t know. Two years is a long time to live with suffering, but it’s amazing how quickly people can adapt to all sorts of atrocity.

Even a pathetic, broken, wounded little bird like me. Those are the words Royal used, anyway, right before he punched me in the face, sneering like the drunk bastard he is.

I have to clench the table to keep from crying out. I’m in public, I remind myself. I can’t freak out right now. Rein it in, Lizzie.

The little blonde barista girl comes over to my table, leaning against the chair across from me. “You sure you don’t want anything, honey?” she asks, blinking and smiling real sweet. I detect a slight southern accent but I’m pretty sure she’s trying to get rid of it.

“I’m okay, thanks,” I say softly.

“You just look tense, is all.” She hesitates then leans toward me, grinning. “I can get you something, you know, a little edible. Calm you right down.”

I shake my head quickly. “No, really. I’m fine. I just want to see Ezra.

“He’s coming,” she says, nodding. “But if you change your mind, let me know.” She hesitates a second. “Oh, and don’t mention the edible to him, okay? We’re not supposed to mix the two businesses. At least not openly.” She grins, winks, and goes back behind the counter again to take a guy in a three-piece suit’s order.

I watch her move around, effortlessly filling a drink and taking change and smiling like nothing hurts at all. Meanwhile, here I am sitting in a chair, knees pulled up defensively, and I can’t even breathe without thinking I might pass out soon.

Pathetic, wounded little bird.

I look around the coffee shop, at the guys in the short shorts and long hair tied back into buns and I feel like I’ve missed ten years instead of just two. I rub my thigh absently again as Lane returns with a tea I didn’t ask for. “Just in case,” she says with a wink.

I sigh. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I try and shield my black eye from her, but it’s impossible. I feel like people are staring at me, the girl that fell from the face of the earth, suddenly back and bruised all over again. I sip the tea, and it’s not half bad. I try to curl into myself, but it’s not possible.

“You look like shit.”

I glance up at Jonas. He hovers over my table, face impassive but intense, gray-blue morning oceans.

“Thanks,” I say, glaring at him. “Like I didn’t know already.”

He pulls out the chair and sits down. I didn’t ask him to sit but I guess it doesn’t matter. He owns this place, along with my brother, the guy I’ve barely spoken to since he left home five years ago.

He made me a promise back then, a promise I’ve thought about over and over. Now I’m here to see if his promise meant anything, or if he’s as full of shit as my whole family is.

Jonas stretches his legs and I can’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. I let my hair fall into my face, trying to hide how I’m staring, but I know I’m failing miserably. He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life, even more attractive than he was back when we were younger. His hair’s short now, faded up along the sides and back but longer on top, combed aside haphazardly. Anyone else might look sloppy, but Jonas easily pulls it off.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

I shake my head quickly. “Not at all.”

“Good,” he grunts.

“Did you just come over here to insult me or what?”

“Came over to make sure you weren’t scaring away my customers.”

I glare again, turning my face directly toward him. “I’m not scaring anyone. It’s just a black eye, okay?”

“Not the black eye that concerns me.” He looks at his fingernails like he’s bored. “It’s that sad pony look you got.”

“Sad pony?”

He shrugs. “You know what I mean. Wounded bird, puppy dog eyes, whatever. You look like you’re about to cry or punch someone.”

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