‘How can I not look at you like a bastard when that’s what I am?’ Figuratively. Literally. ‘And I can’t help I’m superior. It’s a curse.’
‘Get fucked.’
‘Look, I expect Fin just wants her friend to know she’ll occasionally make it out of your bed to meet for coffee when she moves out.’ He smiles, and for a moment, I’m almost envious at the thought of someone keeping my bed warm.Almost.‘She’s making a statement—that Bea will still be part of her life—by including her in on the news of her promotion and stuff.’ I expect she’ll also be at the table when they announce the big day sometime. And when they’re expecting. All those sorts of milestones.
Because I bet she’s a whiny and needy friend—one who has to live vicariously through her friend. Probably has a face like an old boot.
That’s the usual dynamic, isn’t it? A pretty girl and her ugly pal.
‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ Rory replies. ‘Bea was there for her when I... when I—’
‘When you dicked her about?’ Christ, I bet she’s also a really angry friend. She probably hates Rory’s guts, and by that notion, mine. No way am I spending my night with that.
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ he mutters, referring to the recent blip in their relationship. ‘I’d never hurt her.’
‘Not intentionally.’
This is the story of Rory’s life—you can’t fault his intentions. Not when he’s thinking with something other than his dick, at least.
‘I’ll always put her first,’ he says, his eyes coming up from their fascination with the spot of floor between his shoes. ‘She’s it for me. I’ll spend my life trying to make her happy.’
That statement is both gratifying and painful to hear, but not for the reasons you might imagine. My brother’s always been a bit of a selfish prick. Don’t get me wrong; he’s fundamentally good, but he has the nerve to talk about my ego. So it’s good—no, great—to see him put someone else first for a change.And it’s great to know he’s settled and in love.But the painful bit? Well, it fucking hurts to do what I’m about to do.
Ugly and angry and probably really jealous, too.
Ah, shit.
I try not to sigh as I slide my phone from the breast pocket of my shirt and unlock the screen.
Something’s come up. I can’t make it tonight. Rain check?
‘What time did you say dinner was again?’
