Page 116 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

Rack up another mistake for Alexia.

It's from Graham in the fellowship submissions office — someone I've worked with before, and someone Rhys suggested I get in touch with for some insight. The email is kind but honest, brutally so: the applicant field is strong, with most candidates having more experience than me — there's one glaring gap in my submission as it stands — limited collaborative or team-based research experience. Networking. The exact skill set that solitary doctoral work never really provides.

I put the phone face-down on the bench and press the heel of my hand against my eye socket, and I'm still sitting there when the TA email comes in — one of the other tutors, genuinely apologetic, genuinely unwell, asking if there's any chance I could cover her afternoon tute.

I say yes before I've even finished reading it. If I need more networking, it starts now.

Two and a half hours later I'm dragging my body through the campus like it's wading through tar, the ache in my head now like a vice tightening with every breath. It's so bad I genuinely wonder why I'm even trying to move, but the couch in my office is calling my name.

One more step, I keep telling myself, the day wearing on me like a dark weight. It isn't until I round the corner that I see him.

Leaning against my office door, hands in his pockets, staring off into space. He straightens the moment I register that the figure is him. Just then, one of the postgrad students clips past, does a double take, and says, “Rhys? You're still here?” Then, seeing me, he waves. “Yo, teach! Finally! Put the man out of his misery. He's been out here for hours, since right after lunch. You really should get one of those whiteboards for your door so you can say when you'll be back!”

He keeps walking, not waiting for a response. Though I'm not entirely sure I would've had a chance, because Rhys is suddenly right in front of me, staring down at me, his hand coming up as if to cup my cheek.

“What's wrong?” His voice has dropped into something low and urgent I don't have the energy to resist.

“Nothing,” I say, and take the final few steps to my office, and try to close the door with him on the other side. I'm in no condition to confront him about why he cancelled on me today. Not if I don't want to say something I'll regret, not with everything else on my mind.

He just pushes lightly on the door and steps in behind me, then closes it with a small click.

“If you think a door's going to stop me getting to you when you're obviously upset,” he says, “you've either got a very optimistic idea of what a door can do, or a pessimistic view of what I will do to get to you.”

Taking my arm, he leads me to my office chair. I don't stop him. I don't have the energy to. Twice, three times he asks me what's wrong. I ignore his question each time. I'm about to drop into the chair when, without another word, he wraps both arms around me instead, and that's the action that finally breaks me.

The tears burst from me like a breaking dam, my whole body shaking with sobs. Neither of us says a word while I let the tears fall. He just keeps holding me, tight and steady.

When I finally pull back, my face is just as much a mess as my emotional state.

“What are you doing here?” I swipe at my cheeks. “I don't want you seeing me like this.”

Both hands come up to tuck the damp hair from my cheeks. “Like what?”

I gesture at my face. “Like this! A complete and utter mess.”

“Why not?” He tilts his head, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. “Why can't I see you like this if this is how you're feeling?”

“Because! You... you're always so put together!” I cover my eyes with my palms.

“Hey, hey.” His voice is soft but firm. “Look at me.”

I do. When I don't say anything, he just says it again. “Look at me.”

It takes me a second to understand what he's asking, and then it registers — the crumpled collar, the crooked tie, the tired eyes. Then he leans in and gently rubs his cheek against mine. It's rough. He didn't shave. I can't imagine anything happening that would mean Rhys Pham would forgo shaving.

“Are you okay?” I ask, worry for him eclipsing anything I could possibly feel for myself.

He shakes his head. “No, Alexia, I'm not.”

I wait for him to elaborate. He cups my cheek with the softest touch and says, “Do you know the last time I didn't shave?” His voice has gone quiet in a way I haven't heard from him before.

I shake my head.

“Six years ago. The week after you left Sydney.” His jaw works. “I could barely get out of bed. I couldn't handle the fact that I could no longer drive to your house whenever I want to and see you.”

“Rhys. You left me. I fell asleep in your arms, as we talked about a future, and then you just left. Without a word.”

The sorrow in his eyes drains the breath from my lungs. It mirrors the look in my own eyes for months after.