Page 10 of Never Say Yes To Your Brother's Best Friend

“Whoa. Uh…”

“Flip those. They’re going to burn,” he interrupts.

Damn it, he’s right. I get both eggs turned over without breaking the yolks. They’re perfect. I have to pay attention instead of watching him. But it’s hard. I’m suddenly very interested in everything about this man that I’m now legally wed to, for the better of two weeks or for worse. If that’s the best joke I can make, I’m really losing my touch. I haven’t had a lot to laugh about over the past year, so it makes sense that I’m ultra-rusty.

Before I can offer some decent eggs to Patrick, he’s at the fridge, slamming back half the container of OJ. He lets out the softest ahhhh after, like he’s just quenched a massive thirst, and tucks it back into the door.

“I was thinking about doing some grocery shopping later. Is there anything you’d like me to get?” I ask.

“I have everything I need,” he says.

Okay. The fridge is mostly empty, and the cupboards are probably not much better.

I get the eggs onto a plate. They’re perfection. Absolute perfection. I should have started the toast already, but I’m shit at getting everything done at once. That’s the hardest part about cooking. All the timing.

I take out the loaf Patrick just had, and it smells freaking earthy as soon as I open the bag. I wrinkle my nose up when I realize it’s moldy. And not just a little. There’s, like, serious mold on it. Jesus, he really ate that?

He moves around the kitchen like I’m not even there. I close the fridge, grab my eggs, and watch him, though I try to pretend like I’m not. If he cares that I’m not a very good actress, he doesn’t let on.

A package of coffee beans comes out of the cupboard. It’s not some run-of-the-mill, gut-busting, nasty coffee one buys on a shoestring budget. This stuff looks expensive. A drawing of an orange and white fluffy cat on the bag gives two paws up.

After pouring beans into a grinder that he sets on the counter, he puts the lid on and hits the switch. He gives it just a few seconds to grind, then stops it. Then, a press comes down out of the same cupboard. I’m fascinated as I watch the whole process. Next, he takes a jug of distilled water out of the large pantry cupboard at the end and pours it into a retro-looking kettle that matches the toaster with its sleek stainless look. It kind of looks like an ancient rocket ship to me.

Patrick will devour burned eggs and moldy bread, but he won’t drink tap water in his coffee? That’s interesting. He appears to be a coffee snob.

I’m done with my eggs—and god lord, they were so much more delicious than they usually are—by the time the kettle clicks off. Observing Patrick using the French press with the boiling waterand those grounds is almost like watching a scientist working in a lab.

He takes two mugs out of the cupboard. The dish set is plain matte black, and they’re chunky and heavy. The mugs aren’t tall. They’re just run-of-the-mill. He pours one and then makes a second mug. Without a word, he sets it on the counter in front of me.

I can’t drink coffee without cream and sugar, and that stuff smellsbold.

It’s also ungodly hot, but he picks up the mug and takes a long pull like it’s not going to scald his darned face off.

If there’s no cream, I can deal with milk. I get the jug out, but as soon as I twist the cap off, I can smell how sour it is. I move to dump it down the sink, but Patrick hurries over to me like a wraith, takes it from me, puts the cap back on, and tucks it back in its place. Then, he produces a pack of something out of the pantry. Powdered milk.

He does all this like it is his regular routine. He has to eat. Is he eating stuff like this all the time? Rotten food? Spoiled milk? Was this the kind of thing he had to do over the past few years? And if it’s a yes, then it means Jace had to live the same way. It makes me want to cry.

No shit. It’s going to happen. My eyes are burning, and I know the tears are going to become a reality. I can’t hug my brother, and this man isn’t him, but I have the strongest urge to walk across the kitchen, wrap my arms around his rigid figure as he does the cross-armed—please god, not a hug because I’ll melt if you try that on me—thing, and hug the shit out of him anyway. I want to tell him I’m sorry, I’ll get groceries, and that he doesn’t have to live like this anymore.

I know that sometimes, after a lifetime of living rough, people can’t even sleep in a bed anymore. They have to lie on the floor to be able to fall asleep. Whenever Jace came back to visit, he didn’tsleep much at all. I’d find him up all the time. Does Patrick even sleep at all? He must. No one can live without sleeping.

I pour a little bit of the powdered milk from the bag into the coffee. It’s clumpy, so I stir it with the fork that I just licked clean. My first sip is pretty much like straight-up chewing coffee beans, but aside from it being an exceptionally dark roast, there are hints of caramel and chocolate in there too. It’s bitter enough to pucker a butthole, but really, it’s not that bad.

“I need to get groceries for myself, but if you let me know what you like, I can pick it up too.”

He grunts. I’m not sure if that means he’s annoyed or if it means he doesn’t know what he likes. I mean, he has to, right? It’s been a year and a half since he got out of doing whatever he was doing. It bothers me to think about anyone subsisting on this kind of diet. Well, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just doesn’t like to waste, but good lord, there should be a line. And I’m drawing it. Those shit from the fridge are getting snuck into the trash can as soon as I get home with replacements, and if there’s wrath to be faced, then I’ll face it.

“Patrick.” I can see the dead gardens through the kitchen window. He starts like I’ve set off a firecracker right next to him. He ate all that nasty stuff with a straight face, but now it looks like he’s tasted something that’s an eleven out of ten on the nasty scale.

“Rick please. Not Patrick. I hate that fucking name.”

“Rick. Can I ask you something?” His eyes say no. He tenses. “Do you have a hate for flowers, or are you just really bad at keeping things alive?”

“Yes.” His face blanks out. It’s like watching water go down a drain, and then that drain slams shut.

“Which one?”

“Both.” He turns around, coffee in hand. After a few hard swallows, he sets the mug down. It sounds empty.

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