Page 13 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

“I have to be.” She motions at the black eye. “It’s how I got this.”

“Yeah, well, drug dealers can be neat and stylish, too.”

She nods a little bit, eyes roaming the tattoos snaking up along my arms. I let her get a good look before returning the favor, eyes lingering on her chest. She catches me staring and I don’t try to hide it. She blushes and looks away.

“You should be happy,” I say. “If this were Ezra’s place, you’d be sleeping on empty pizza boxes on an air mattress. At least now you have a comfortable couch.”

“Good point,” she says, sighing.

“Why were you out on the patio, anyway?”

Hesitation. It’s written all over her. She doesn’t want to tell me why she was out there, and I can tell I hit a nerve.

“No reason,” she says. “Just fell asleep.”

She’s lying, it’s obvious, but I don’t push. “I don’t blame you. Nice out there after the sun goes down.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Really nice.”

We watch each other and I marvel at how different she is, but also how much she’s stayed the same. I think about myself back then, back when I spent time at her house with her fucked-up stepdad and her fucked-up mom, and I can’t picture the guy I was. Drug dealer, burnout, asshole, thug, playboy, I was all that and more. Now I’m a legit businessman, but it’s hard to shake the reputation.

I want to ask her how she ended up here, how she got through what happened. I heard about the accident, I think everyone in San Diego heard about it. Poor girl, poor wounded girl, that’s what everyone said. Ezra stayed mostly quiet, and as far as I know, he never once visited her in the hospital. I thought it was fucked up at the time. I guess I still do.

I don’t get the chance though. The door opens and Ezra storms in, looking even more manic than usual as he throws his keys down in a dish.

“Sister!” he calls out. “Sister!”

I sigh and give her a strained smile as I slip out of the kitchen. Ezra comes rolling in, laughing and chatting like a madman, and it’s so obvious that he’s on fucking drugs that I can’t imagine she doesn’t notice. But she doesn’t say anything either, just goes along with his stupidity.

I sneak away. I don’t want to deal with Ezra when he’s high. Let Lizzie take that bullet. It’ll be how she pays her part of the rent.

I head into my room and find an old half-smoked blunt tucked into my sock drawer. I lie down on top of my comforter and light it, pulling in the old, dry weed. It’s rough and I cough, but it’s better than nothing.

If I don’t smoke this shit now and pass out soon, I’m afraid I’ll end up sneaking out into the living room in the middle of the night and do something stupid.

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