Don't Date Your Brother's Best Friend

“Hey, don’t go getting any ideas. She’s still my little sister,” Ryan chuckled.

It was all I could do not to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I knew precisely how Ryan felt about any interest I could have in Sarah Jo. She was his little sister, his to protect. That to make any advance to her would insult him, offend him, cost me his friendship. Not because he thought I was a threat to her well-being, but because she should be off-limits for the simple fact that she was his little sister. I was never sure if he was possessive of her because it disgusted him to think of his friend and his sister together or because he just didn’t want her to be distracted by dating and romance from her role as family caretaker. It wasn’t like I could ask him to elaborate. His chuckle said it all, both sharp and hollow, not open to discussion.

The truth was, our lifelong friendship was what held me back from speaking out, from saying I had more than a friendly interest in Sarah Jo. In a way, I blamed myself for letting her be pigeonholed as his baby sister when she was much more than that. But Ryan had seen me through some hard times, and I owed him loyalty. If the cost of that loyalty was never acting on my feelings for Sarah Jo, then that was my choice to make. Because if I acted on those feelings, it would be as much as telling Ryan to go to hell. He had his flaws, but he was a decent guy, and we’d been friends too long to throw that away. Not to mention the fact that Ryan was hurting. He was spiraling out of control in slow motion over his divorce, becoming the worst version of himself.

“So you’ll never guess who I ran into at the gas station this morning,” he said, leaning forward, eager to tell the story.

“Who did you run into?”

“Whitney. With Winston Charles. They came out of the store carrying gas station coffee in Styrofoam cups, arm in arm like a white trash Tiffany’s ad. Can you believe that?” he said, shaking his head.

“That had to be really hard, seeing her unexpectedly like that, running into her with him.”

“She’s trash, Luke. I didn’t see it before. I thought she was different. But she’s just as ignorant and low class as everyone else in this shit town,” Ryan said. I didn’t respond. I didn’t comment that I, not to mention his blood relatives, lived in this shit town. That we didn’t deserve his contempt. I waited, reminded myself that he was hurting.

“Life can be crazy,” I said.

“Life? That bitch is crazy. She had me. I’m a fucking project manager at the bank now. I was already pulling six figures before the promotion. I got her a goddamn Birkin bag for her birthday. She had her nails done every week. Cleaning lady, keto meal service—what kind of woman gives that up for a dipshit sheriff’s deputy with pecs bigger than his brain? A crazy one, that’s what kind,” he said, shoving the bowl across the table in disgust and motioning for another drink.

“Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, it’s obvious she didn’t want the same kind of life you do, so now the way is clear for you to find somebody new.”

“Oh, I will. I’m gonna find someone who appreciates how hard I work to give her the life she deserves. Shit, the life I deserve.”

I nodded. “You do deserve to be a happy man. But you can’t rely on a woman to do that for you. I mean, sure, it helps, but you have to be happy with yourself.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Don’t go all Dr. Fucking Phil on me, Luke.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying you can’t put one hundred percent of your happiness on someone else’s shoulders.”

He let out a long sigh.

I reached over and chucked him on the shoulder. “You need to talk to somebody.”

“I thought I was talking to my best friend,” he said.

“Listen man, I always have your back, which means I am the one to call you out when you’re in a spiral. Ever since you and Whitney split, you’ve been off the rails. I don’t know if you’re just drinking too much or if you’re so hurt by all this that you think being angry will make it better—”

Ryan’s eyes clouded and he took another slug of his beer.

“Stop trying to be a shrink. You didn’t even go to college,” he spat.

“That’s right. I didn’t,” I said, “and if that’s the best insult you’ve got, I think you need to go back to the drawing board. I’m worried about you, Ryan. You’re my best friend, and I won’t sit back and watch you blow up your life in slow motion. You’re treating everyone like shit. That’s not you.”