Page 15 of Falling For My Best Friend's Brother

Lindsay scoffed. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I’d rather stab my eye with a hot needle a hundred times.”

“Then why do you seem so interested in his love life?”

I snorted a little too loudly. “Knox and love in the same sentence? Must be an alternate universe. Your fucked up brother would not know what love is if it walked up to him and gave him a wedgie. I’m not interested in his nonexistent love life. He doesn’t deserve a second of my attention.”

“Wow. I’ve never heard you speak so strongly about a man before. You must reallyhatehim.”

I frowned at my phone. “Of course I do. Why do you say that like it’s a lie?”

Lindsay laughed softly. “How’s your new painting coming along? Finally found a buyer?”

I didn’t miss the subtle change of topic, but at least we weren’t talking about that asshole anymore. “Not yet. It’s not even finished.” I turned to look at the canvas standing in a corner of my room. I refused to touch Lindsay’s room. She’d be back. Oneday. Hopefully—I didn't have anywhere else to paint, so I settled for creating a small area in my room for my work.

The painting was abstract and until now, I couldn’t tell what exactly I was trying to depict. The black brushstrokes were all haphazard and somehow, I’d blended them with fuchsia. It looked pretty and chaotic, but the message was not completely clear yet.

At first, I thought I wanted to draw a woman. But as things progressed, the vision changed. To what, though, I did not know. If there was one thing I’d learned from years of working on a canvas, it’s that it was better to not paint at all than to rush the process.

Art was fluid.

“If you asked me—”

“I didn’t.” I cut in, knowing where this was going.

“I’d tell you that you’re only a phone call away from making good money off your paintings,” she still finished. “All you have to do is—”

“I’m not calling my parents for help, Lindsay. We’ve been through this.”

She sighed. “Yes, but I still feel like you’re going about this the wrong way. They’re your parents. They’re obligated to do anything they can to help you. Why do you always reject them?”

This conversation was exhausting no matter what time of day we were having it. “Well, first off, my dad doesn’t like the fact that I paint. You really think he’s happy telling his rich friends his daughter is an artist? He already thinks it’s beneath me.”

“Which is perfectly normal. He’s a couple of millions away from being a billionaire. I think he’s allowed to be arrogant.”

I groaned, covering my face with a hand. “Can we change the subject? Please?”

Lindsay huffed. “Fine. But I’m just saying. Many of us would kill to have rich parents with the ability to snap a finger and make life good. At some point, you're going to have to stop rejecting them.”

“I don’t reject them,” I mumbled. “They send me a ridiculous amount of money every month and I spend it.”

“Barely,” Lindsay countered. “How much do you have in your bank account, Nina?”

I stopped for a second to think about it. My parents had credited my account every month from the day I turned eighteen. I’d stopped the excessive spending when I was about twenty-one, so give or take… a lot. At least the last time I bothered to check.

“The point is,” Lindsay continued when I took too long to answer. “Life is tough and personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with accepting help. Take Knox, for example. He recently lost a huge project that would’ve helped save his company, and now it looks like he might have to pack up shop if he doesn’t get a breakthrough soon. If he had rich parents, maybe things would be different.”

I inhaled sharply. “I didn’t know that.”

Lindsay gave another exhale, and I could imagine her biting her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have told you that. Listen, I know you have no interest in finance and that’s great for you. But it’s stupid to live like you don’t have all these resources. Life doesn’t favor the poor, my dear. Take it from me.” Then her voice changed. “Gotta go, Neens. Let’s talk later. And try not to rip each other’s heads off. Love you!”

And then she was gone.

Long after the call ended, I lay in bed on my stomach, blankly staring at the painting as my mind wandered. It was easy for me to say that I didn’t want my parents' help because I would always have it. If I went to them now and asked that they help me sell my paintings, I would be out of pieces and a couple thousand bucks richer by nighttime, whether or not they liked it. Because my parents truly loved me.

And while I tried not to compare myself with others, there had been times when I’d wondered if my life would be different if my parents weren’t rich. Would I have had genuine friendships withthose kids in high school? Would everyone who approached me do so without hidden intentions? Or would things have been the same, regardless?

I doubted that. I’d have a better chance of finding a needle in a haystack than rich people had finding true friends.

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