Page 93 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

What is going on? "Rhys...?"

"Because you've never been just...people...to me. Never! Despite what you might think.”

Craig, to his credit, is already stepping back, hands up, murmuring something about coffee, gone before either of us can protest.

"It's easier this way, okay?" I say. "Can we drop it?"

Rhys turns away like he's about to storm off, but when he turns back, he's rubbing a hand down his face. "Do you really hate me that much? That you'd rather slip fifteen fucking dollars under my office door and sneak away than let me do something as insignificant as buy some fucking flour for you?"

"It's not about hating you. Look,"—I reach for the envelope and he pulls it back, doesn't let me take it—"I just didn't want you covering costs that had nothing to do with you. It's not that serious."

“It is this fucking serious, Alexia!” He steps back again to take another breath. Jesus, good thing we don’t have a swear jar because he’d be owing it half his monthly pay at this rate. His squares his jaw as he says, slow and hard. “And don't give me that bullshit about the groceries being for work. I know this is for the banana bread. That you made for Zachary." He huffs out a breath. “Which, by your criteria, fell under the catergory of household expenses since both you and Zachary live at the house.”

I open my mouth to argue but the look on his face stops me. It's full of anger and hurt and confusion and so many unsaid things.

He continues, “But even if it weren’t for the house, paying me back for it is frankly, fucking insulting. As if…” he sighs, “as if you’re keeping tabs of every transaction between us. Like we’re…strangers.”

He looks around, as if finally noticing the faces pretending not to listen, and pulls me into the empty tute room Craig and I just vacated, kicking the door closed behind us. One more step has him backing me against the door, looming almost a foot above me.

He breathes, slow, pained, and it’s warm and sweet, the essence of mint gum on my face. "If you're trying to hurt me," he starts, jaw working like the rest of the sentence is stuck in his throat, "then consider it done." He reaches for my hand and, before I understand what he's doing, presses it flat against his chest, over his heart, holding it there with his own hand so I can't pull back. "Hurt me," he says, quietly now, like the last exhale drained all the fury from him, leaving only grief. "As much as you need to. For what happened six years ago. I know I earned it."

I try to turn away, but he catches my chin and stops me.

"I mean it. Nothing you do is ever going to come close to how much it wrecked me to hurt you in the first place." His hand tightens over mine until our skin turns white, like he's holding on to something he already knows he's about to lose. "And I need you to know how much I wish, every single day, that I'd done it all differently." His face scrunches with pain for a moment before he straightens. "So, hurt me. Please. But don't treat me like I'm just 'people' to you."

For a moment I'm back there, back to that night, back to the girl who would've wished to hear these words from him.

But I'm not her. Not anymore.

I pull out of his sphere and wrap my arms around myself. "But isn't that what we are to each other? Two people who happen to be living in the same house connected by my brother? We don't know each other, really, do we? It's been six years, Rhys. Can you honestly say you haven't changed? Because I have."

He straightens, pivoting to face me straight on. "Is that what you want? Is that all you want us to be?"

No. No! I want to scream. There was a time I wanted us to be everything to each other. But you walked away. And ruined it all.

And now? Now I don't know what I want. Don't know what I should allow myself to even wish for.

So I nod, staring to the side so he doesn't see that it's a lie.

He watches me like he thinks I might break and change my answer. I don't.

Finally he nods back.

"Then fine, we're just housemates," he says. "Who occasionally work together. But just so you know, if you're trying to injure me, consider me battered and bleeding."

He's gone before I can get another word out, leaving me alone in the empty room.

The next morning, I bring up Craig's data problem in my tutorial, because a real-time problem is a far more exciting teaching moment than something from a textbook.

"So this is a live one," I tell the group, sketching the regression on the board. "One of the post-docs is actually wrestling with this right now. What variable do you think might be missing?"

It works better than I expect. Almost the whole class become engaged and in doing so, I’m awarded ample chances to relate some teachings to the tute topic. I leave the tutorial feeling something close to competent for the first time in days.

Craig's waiting when I come out, leaning against the wall with two coffees.

“I see you used my crisis as a teaching moment." He doesn't sound offended. If anything, delighted. "I'm flattered. Truly. My professional humiliation, now a pedagogical tool."

"Any time. I appreciate your sacrifice."