Page 4 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Of course, when I try to slide a key into the deadbolt, it stops halfway inside.

“Serena, what the hell is going on?” I can only barely hear Bianca through the roaring in my head. Her voice is muffled and tinny, like a hand reaching out to me through the haze.

Turning, I stand at the top of the stairs and stare out at the rest of my belongings—vintage records, old cameras, bags and bags of clothes—sitting out in the rain.

I open my mouth to tell her, to calmly explain that it’s happened again. That I thought I found a home, and somehow it’s been ripped away from me.

But instead of words, the only thing I manage to release is a broken, wounded sob.

Chapter 3

Serena

I’m sitting on the porch surrounded by my things, eyes unfocused and clothes thoroughly drenched, when my friends arrive.

When I realized I wasn’t going to be able to stop crying, I got off the phone with Bianca. I’ve never liked being mushy with other people, and especially not over the phone. Even my best friend.

And especially not now. Not after months of counseling, dragging out the rawest parts of myself for Alex to see, only for him to boot me out like this. Like I haven’t worked hard enough, earned the right for this to bemyplace, too.

Just for one time in my life, I would like to leave of my own volition.

For a few minutes, I’d pounded on the front door, demanding that Alex show his stupid, slimy face. Calling him a coward and a bastard. Screaming until my voice was so hoarse it felt like a physical, raw thing, struggling to make room around my throat.

Then, I’d remembered my things—the vintage cameras and old records. All the belongings not protected by black plastic. Maybe Alex didn’t know it was going to rain, or maybe he did, and it was intentional. Worse than both of those thingswas the obvious truth—I wasn’t even worth the consideration of checking his weather app to find out.

I dragged everything up on the porch and out of the rain, to try and protect them, laying them out to dry. Then, when that was done, I saw Mrs. Dweyer on her front porch, wrapped in a dusty pink robe, surveying the scene and talking on the phone. Mr. Richards had paused in the street, wearing that stupid matching poncho that his schnauzer wears, and only seemed to realize he was staring when I looked pointedly back at him.

Of course, I couldn’t suffer this humiliation in peace.

So I sat on the front porch, surrounded by bleeding record sleeves and ruined Polaroids, and started to laugh. It was like being possessed, which probably didn’t help the wholeneighbors watching my misfortune like a soap operathing.

“You want something to look at?” I’d hollered, voice fractured, whiny. Then I stood, using my left hand to flip off Mrs. Dweyer, and the right for Richards and his stupid, yappy fucking dog. “How’s that?”

Richards said something I didn’t catch and hurried along, while Mrs. Dweyer retreated from the front porch and went inside, choosing instead to stare at me through the window.

It’s not like Alex and I made a particularly strong effort to get to know the people around us. Aside from bumping into them getting the mail, or suffering through an awkward,so, when are you having kids?question, I never saw them at all.

Maybe they all knew this was going to happen and were waiting patiently for the day.

“Serena!”

I blink through the angry, mortified fog in my head and look up to see my friends tumbling out of Lillie’s beat up, silver and rust Chrysler Pacifica. It makes me laugh again—they look like clowns folding out of a tiny car.

“Hey, guys,” I say, standing and waving, giving them a wry smile. It’s an instinct rooted in me, to act like nothing is bothering me.Everything is okay. It’s just a ruined life, nothing to see here.

“That fuckingbastard,” Lillie says, her minivan giving a littlebeep beepbehind her, the back hatch opening slow and creaky. Then, she throws her arms around me, hugging me tight.

Lillie always smells like what I imagine a grandmother does—something like lavender or rose. Unlike a grandma, her hair is always self-dyed, right now a soft, hazy purple that mingles with silver and darker hair underneath.

“Don’t worry, babe,” she insists, pulling back and pushing her glasses up on her nose. “You’re coming with us.”

Wordlessly, Sid—tall, dark and tattooed—and Grayson—shorter, blonde and wearing a New York Giants jersey—are already picking up my things, loading them in the back of Lillie’s minivan like it’s a competition. Tetris with two players.

“Put the record player in first,” Georgie says, appearing beside me silently and hefting the thing up like it weighs nothing. “You can pack the clothes in tight to keep it from knocking around.”

I’ve never told Georgie—tall, with a dark, sleek ponytail and slim build—that the record player is my most important possession. She has, apparently, just gathered that information because she’s always quietly observing.

Then there’s Bianca, taking up the hug the moment Lillie lets me go. “It’s going to be okay,” she says into my hair, and I’m just exhausted enough to believe her.