Don't Date Your Brother's Best Friend

“Yeah, ‘course I did. This ain’t my first rodeo, Maddox.”

“Good, now what about Sarah Jo?”

“Well, I went by the lumberyard and bought a new steel tape.”

“Yeah?” I said.

I took out the shredded cheddar, dumped it in a bowl and put the chopped onions in another serving bowl. Jake put them on the table and started putting ice in glasses and pouring tea. He didn’t say anything.

“I’m sure they have a thirty-day return policy if there’s a problem with the tape,” I said, putting off the inevitable.

I could smell it like a storm coming. This punk was checking out my girl. I felt like some asshole in West Side Story about to break into song about staying off my turf.

“It’s not that. The merchandise was fine, but it’s what’s behind the counter I want a closer look at,” he said.

“The candy rack. That’s what they keep behind the counter. And assorted sizes of washers, all in one cardboard box you can dig through if you want an odd-size one,” I said stubbornly literal, trying not to demand what the hell was wrong with him.

“I mean the girl,” he said. “But I think you know that. Why are you all weird about her? Do you have some sort of claim on her?”

“Nah,” I lied.

“Really? So you don’t care if I ask her out?” Jake said.

God help me, I needed to go scrub the trash cans again. I just shook my head, cool as could be. I wanted to scream from the rooftops that no one but me was ever gonna put my hands on Sarah Jo, but I knew I needed to respect her wishes about not going public just yet. “Nah, go ahead. Shoot your shot.”

“Well, she’s not my best friend’s little sister, so why not, right?” he said, chuckling. I thought his laugh made him sound like a moron. I wanted to imitate it, do some exaggerated cartoon laugh to ridicule him. I had all these childish urges to shove his face in a chili bowl or something. So I went over and started scrubbing a cutting board, scouring the pans.

“Come on, man, sit down and eat,” he said as he called the other guys. I shook my head.

“Not hungry. This skillet’s gonna be nasty if I just let it sit and the grease hardens,” I said, turning away.

Yeah, it bothered me. I had to pretend it didn’t. I missed Sarah Jo. I had talked to her on the phone once since she came to my place. We didn’t meet at the tree anymore because we were bound to get caught. I wanted more time to just be with her, sit and talk, kiss her, take our time. Not a five-minute phone conversation on the way from my house to the bar. She deserved better than that. I wanted to go to sleep with her in my arms and wake up that way, too. I wanted to send her flowers, but there was no way to do that without everybody knowing we were together. I couldn’t even go get a bouquet at the Piggly Wiggly without the checkout lady wanting to know who they were for. And if I lied and said they were for my mama, next thing I know, my mama’s damn sure to get asked if she liked her flowers, and I’d be in deep shit. So I couldn’t do anything special like I wanted to, couldn’t even get her to sleep over. Or move in. Yeah, it was quick to do that, but I’d spent long enough waiting.

Okay, so maybe I didn’t spend the last seven years waiting for her and living like a priest or anything. But I hadn’t gotten seriously involved with anyone since her. She had been the one who got away. Technically the one I kicked myself for walking away from. But that’s not as catchy a line for a sad song. There’d never been another woman I kissed that I didn’t compare to Sarah Jo and how I’d felt when we were together. Usually that led to self-loathing and a fair amount of alcohol going by.

Just like I’d told Sarah Jo, it had felt wrong with anyone else. I knew she could figure out the rest of it, the part I hadn’t said aloud. I knew she was the right one. Hell, I’d known since we were barely more than kids. If it took this long for us to find our way back to each other, it was worth it. As long as nothing went wrong. And by nothing, I mean Ryan.

I’d always been impressed with Ryan, proud of him even. With nothing for a role model but his shiftless, hard-drinking father who would’ve been bankrupt years ago if not for the foolish loyalty of the manager at the lumberyard—with nothing to live up to but that, he’d made something of himself. He got his degree with honors, got a big job with the bank and worked his way up in promotion after promotion. He had a pretty wife. Batshit crazy, but pretty, and he wasn’t exactly easygoing himself. He was successful, productive, sometimes even mature.