Page 3 of Thanking Her Brother's Best Friends

But I was stubborn. I wouldn't leave him—growing up in a Southern Baptist home had taught me to stick it out no matter what—but I wouldn't let him command my life.

"You should leave him, you know." Chloe scowled heavily. "Good for nothing asshole that he is, I can guarantee he's going to throw a hissy fit when he hears Netflix has given you your own show. He'll say shit like you don't deserve it, you're gonna mess it up... you know where I'm going with this, Sel."

I did. But my family wouldn't. Ben would be the one having the hissy fit if I brought up the topic of divorce. Marriage was the most sacred of unions to him—even if we'd grown up knowing nothing but failed relationships. And I adored Ben.

He was more than my older brother. He was the only one in my family I still had any connections to. I cherished that.

"Ben would be the one throwing the hissy fit if I left him, Chloe."

"You Southern Baptists," Chloe grumbled.

"You should try speaking to the Lord sometimes," I teased her, knowing full well that Chloe was an absolute non-believer.

"Hey, the last time I prayed to the Lord, I asked him for a martini instead of a miracle," she replied before breaking into an infectious bout of laughter that caught on to me.

The driver banged a Uey, and I was home in five more minutes.

My penthouse in Seaport was a far cry from the rowhouse of my childhood. It was one of the most secure residences in the city.

I'd left no stone unturned when it came to surveillance and comfort. My son would have the best of the best.

I said goodbye to Chloe and asked the driver to drop her home. On the way up, my mind was full of all the possibilities that were about to unfold.

"Please, God," I murmured. "Give me a sign. Show me he's still with me, and he still wants to fight for our son and our marriage. Don't let him give up on me."

It was as if I already knew he wasn't going to give me an easy time. Dave had been a different man when I was new to this city. He was one of the first friends I’d had. This was before he gave in to alcoholism, the Irish scourge.

It began with one drink, and he was hooked. There was a time when he was on the route to becoming one of the best gastronomic chefs in Boston. But restaurants refused to hire him when he gave in to his vices.

He became a liability—misbehaving with customers, messing up orders, believing he was a god. In the service industry, all of this pointed to a man unhinged. Soon, he was unemployable. Not before the media ripped him to pieces, though.

I still thought part of the reason he hated me was that the media portrayed me as someone relatable, someone easy to fall in love with—while he was often shown as the singular impediment in my life.

They thought they were doing me a favor by stirring the pot of my marriage. They refused to believe all they were doing was causing me a world of pain.

I stepped into the living room, running a trembling hand over my sleek ponytail. A sigh escaped my lips as I stepped out of my Louboutins and felt my feet touch the soft ground.

Modern and minimalist, my home's clean, neutral lines welcomed me like a haven.

"There you are."

His drawl told me everything I needed to know. Against everything I'd decided, I felt my blood begin to boil. It wasn't even seven in the evening, and my husband lay sprawled on the couch, his eyes red, his hands nursing his favorite mistress.

"Are you out of your mind?" I hissed. "Where's Ollie? Why aren't you watching him, Dave?"

"Oh, shut up!" He tossed the empty glass in my direction. But I'd long practiced dodging his antics, so I moved deftly. It hit and shattered against the north wall, shards ricocheting across the room.

"Look how fat you've gotten," he hissed, leering a smile at me. "I'd still do you, but no one else will. Is that why you're still here, Sel?

"Or is it because of that two-faced fucker of a brother you have? Did you read theDailyHerald?"

He mimicked a girlish, high-pitched voice. "Our beloved Kitchen Goddess deserves so much better than the drunkard she's made her home with! Vote if you think there's something going on between her and Andy Cruz!"

He got up but decided he wasn't feeling stable enough and dropped back down before pointing an accusing finger at me. "I thought you were working with Andy Cruz on a new project. Is this your project?”

He scoffed. "Getting close and sticky in the kitchen? Do your customers know you're serving them a side of his nasties?"

I felt my ears go red. "Andy is nothing but a colleague," I replied tartly, refusing to let him get to me. "You know that as well as I do. I refuse to have this conversation with you right now, Dave. Talk to me when you feel sane."

---