Page 8 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

“Thanks,” I say, managing to smile back. It’s so obvious that he doesn’t want me here, but I don’t care.

He made a promise. I’m going to make him uphold it.

“Come on,” he says, swooping me away from the table. He grabs my bag and hustles me out of the café, out into the parking lot. He drives this old, beat-up Corvette, probably from the eighties. It looks like it shouldn’t even work, but the engine starts right up as he hops in and I climb into the passenger seat. It’s black and sleek with a long front and only two seats. The headlights pop up though they look like they’re permanently rusted shut. He pulls out of his parking spot way too fast, throwing the car out into the fast lane as he speeds through traffic.

I have to grip the seat and clench my jaw to keep from screaming as flashbacks to that night come tearing through my mind. They always do when someone drives too fast.

“It’s a small place,” Ezra is saying over the music and the wind. His window’s down and he doesn’t look like he’s putting it back up. “Jonas and I share it, rent’s pretty cheap and it’s close to here, so we like it.” He swerves around another car almost casually, coming within inches of clipping the side. I feel like I might puke.

“There’s a couch you can crash on,” he says. “I’d offer you my room, but, well, it’s a mess, and I have some, you know, dates coming around.”

“That’s okay,” I manage to say. “Couch is good.”

“Yeah, couch is good,” he echoes, nodding and smiling like he’s hearing that for the first time ever. “You can crash however long you need, and anything you want, just ask. I’ll take care of it.” He looks over at me and I want to scream at him to keep his eyes on the road. “I got you, little sis. I’m glad you came to me.”

“Thanks,” I say through clenched teeth.

He practically flies into the parking lot of an old beat-up looking apartment complex. He parks and hops out. I stumble after him, my stomach in my throat. I want to puke but I keep it under control. If Ezra notices my discomfort, he doesn’t say anything about it.

“So the code is 7482, just type it in and bang, you’re set.” The door unlocks and we head inside. Vinyl flooring, echoing walls, white and scuffed. “Up the stairs, around this corner, and we’re home.”

He unlocks a boring-looking door at the end of the second-floor hallway and steps inside, pulling me along.

It’s surprisingly not horrible. I think I expected a huge mess of a bachelor pad, since my brother and Jonas aren’t exactly known for their clean-living lifestyles, but it’s the total opposite of that. The apartment itself is way nicer and completely different from the apartment building’s hallways.

The first thing that catches my eye are the plants. They’re everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, in giant pots in corners, on shelves and in buckets. The floors are gleaming cherry-red hardwood and the far wall is completely glass, opening out into a sunny little patio with large corrugated metal walls all around it. More plants are out in the courtyard, almost swamping it in completely.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Ezra says, stepping into the space. He tosses his keys into a dish on a table against the wall as I follow him inside.

“What mess?” I manage to say, looking around with my eyes wide.

“Fucking plants,” he says, grunting and waving his hand. “They’re everywhere.”

“Yeah,” I say, and then catch myself. “They’re not yours?”

“No,” he says, laughing a little. “Jonas likes that shit, not me.”

I frown a little bit, surprised. I didn’t peg Jonas as the type of guy to like gardening and plants, but clearly I was wrong.

“This is all you,” Ezra says, pointing at the couch. There are two couches next to each other in a little “L” configuration across from a large flat screen TV. Sleek, modern looking speakers flank the TV and the coffee table looks like it’s made from reclaimed pallet wood.

“Couch is surprisingly comfortable,” Ezra says, patting the back. “I think you’ll be good here. Gets sunny in the morning, though.” He waves his hand over at the glass wall before turning to his left.

“Kitchen over here,” he says, continuing the tour. I toss my duffel bag down on the couch and follow him. “You can have anything with my name on it.”

“You guys put your names on your food?”

He rolls his eyes. “Jonas,” he says, before moving on.

I catch a glimpse of a neat and orderly kitchen. There’s a picnic style table in the center of the space and clean, empty counters. I’m guessing all the neatness comes from Jonas as well, considering the way Ezra is stomping through the place.

I’m thoroughly blown away already as Ezra takes me upstairs. Tasteful paintings line the walls and little plants are placed along the stairs. Ezra stomps past it all, but I pause to take a look: cats in a really primitive style, a school bus without wheels.

“This is my room,” Ezra says, stopping at the first door. He pushes it open and gestures inside.

Sure enough, it’s a wreck. Clothes on the floor, bed unmade, trash on the nightstand.

“Didn’t expect guests,” he mumbles. “Would’ve cleaned up.”

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