Page 64 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

I watch her go and feel nothing. Not a flicker. Only the burning regret that the only woman I want to watch undress is one on the other side of this wall, the one who doesn't even know she's it.

FIFTEEN

Alexia

I'm a bloody idiot.

That's what I'm thinking as I get out of the shower for the second time today. I try to tell myself I showered again because I'm covered in flour, sugar and spices, basically a walking loaf of banana bread. But that doesn't explain why I shaved my legs and exfoliated, or why my room is strewn with every article of clothing I brought in my frantic packing from Sydney. In the end I choose black leggings and a white crop tee that says Cite or Die. Now I'm here at two a.m., a tray set with freshly sliced chai banana bread and a pot of licorice root tea, waiting for the kettle to boil.

It's fine. It's not weird. We've been having these late-night snack meetings for over two weeks now. Granted, most of the time it's felt spontaneous, two tired ships meeting in the night for a cuppa and a sweet treat. So what if last night he brought me home some cake, and today I spent three hours in the kitchen baking something special for him, when I never bake.

I mean, it's just housemates doing housematey things. Friends, if you will.

Friends who grab each other's hands.

Friends who grip each other's hips and pull them in close.

Friends who kiss like the world is on fire and they're the only two people left on the earth.

You know, perfectly normal friendly housemate things.

I'm such a bloody idiot.

The idiot label especially hits hard when I find myself rummaging in the living room drawers for a candle and find a collection, and spend five minutes sniffing them to decide which one is more "hey, i just found this random candle lying around and I thought, isn't it a bit dark in here?" and less "Candlelight. You. Me. Cake. Kiss me."

I put the candle back. I tell myself it's just because the rose scent would clash with the banana bread. At two thirty a.m., the house is almost unearthly quiet. Rhys was already home when I got in around eight, already in his room with the door closed, the groceries packed away except for the baking ingredients. Seeing them all laid out on the counter had me plunging into a pit of guilt. I have no idea if Marcus's...visitor...is still here. Nor do I want to find out. Like I said, whatever was happening there is over.

Zachary's been coming home around this time every night since I've been staying here, but Tuesdays are famously quieter, so somewhere inside I’m hoping he’ll be home a little earlier than usual.

I'm looking forward to seeing him. Looking forward to hearing about his day. Looking forward to telling him about mine.

Looking forward to seeing if our kiss last night had the same effect on him as it did on me, if he'd blurted out nonsensical words mid-workday because he couldn't get the feel of our bodies pressed together out of his head.

And here I am, sitting in the dark, freshly showered, shaved and hopeful. For someone I have no business waiting for.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway at about two forty-five has me leaping to my feet to turn on the kettle. But it quickly fades away, probably just a car using our driveway to turn around.

At three thirty a.m., I wonder if Tuesdays being a quiet night is an urban myth.

At four a.m., it becomes apparent how much of an idiot I really am.

At four fifty-seven, I put the licorice tea leaves back in the can. And get rid of any evidence of the banana bread.

And as I'm walking back to my room in silence, I'm taken back to why tonight should never have been any surprise.

Six Years Ago

I check my watch. 11:24 p.m. Thirty-six minutes to go. I'd promised Leon I'd stay at his stupid party until at least midnight so I could give him his happy birthday hug the second it ticked over to his birthday. For someone so intelligent, he's really ridiculous sometimes. But what do I expect from someone who keeps a notebook rating all the public toilets he's used?

I carry my tea to the bench in the alcove at the back of our yard, glad his friends have all congregated inside. One of them had me cornered by the esky for a good fifteen minutes, banging on about the structural importance of a good beer bottle shape. I held on as long as I could before making my excuses about testing his theories myself, and how I was going to go outside to try balancing things on a tri-bottle foundation. He seemed genuinely excited to hear my findings.

So far, those findings are: I am not a party person. Everyone told me that once I turned eighteen, my love of partying would flare to life like some age-activated gene sequence. If I was anything like my brother, Leon, that is.

That should've told them everything. I am nothing like Leon. And that's okay with me. One of him is more than enough.

I'm swinging my legs, listening to him hold court from my little hideaway, when a silhouette makes its way from the back porch towards me.

If I didn't recognise the figure, I'd be on my feet with an excuse ready. However, knowing who it is only makes me want to stay exactly where I am.