He sees me and preps another coffee mug for the machine. “Hey,” he says.
I reply with the same three letters, but don’t venture any further into the kitchen. We’re staring at each other, assessing the damage. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and I imagine I have too. Neither of us could sleep last night. He probably stared blankly at the ceiling just as I continued to do after finishing Keiron off.
“You know we need to react to it, right?” he says.
I know he’s talking about Freddie’s text. I’d assumed Ryker would have been a bigger man than me and actually opened thetext and tapped out congratulations, but I was wrong. Both of us are cowards. I’m surprised Freddie hasn’t sent it again thinking it didn’t go through. He’s probably checking his phone every few minutes for our reaction. He’s probably sitting somewhere tugging at the legs of his jeans as nerves take over.
“We’re his best friends,” Ryker says, but he lowers his gaze and talks to the floor. “We always said we’re happy if he’s happy.”
“We’re both not happy.”
Ryker grabs a handful of his hair and tugs. “What do we do, then? We need to bury this.” He smirks but it’s hollow. “Obviously not in the way wewantto bury it, but it needs to be done.”
“We’ve tried,” I say.
Ryker’s tried fucking his way through half the city, and I’ve tried relationships, but neither have helped us get over Freddie. I think about that metaphorical switch again and whether I’d flick it, turn off all emotion for our best friend.
“You haven’t tried putting a ring on it,” Keiron says from the doorway, startling us both. Keiron’s wrapped up in my dressing gown, and he’s holding up his left hand, waggling his ring finger. “That might help you get over him . . . I’m expecting your proposal by the end of the week.”
He laughs—not with me, but at me. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and with his blond hair sticking up, he looks sinister, gleeful in his delight at seeing our turmoil. Keiron, like all the men Ryker seduces, doesn’t look a thing like Freddie. He’s slim, tattooed, with a blond mullet and nose ring. He drinks from the carton, never takes the bin out, and uses all the hot water whenever he has a shower.
Ryker folds his arms. “Get the hell out.”
“Hey,” I snap, taking a step closer to my brother. “Don’t talk to him like that.”
“He’s poison,” Ryker says. “I don’t want him here.”
“Tough. This place is half mine, and he’s my boyfriend.”
“No,” Ryker says. “He’s not, Liam. Fuck knows what you are, but it’s not healthy.”
I’m not healthy.
I bare my teeth at my brother as I grit out, “He’s staying.”
“Maybe we need to draw a chalk line down the middle of the house, your side and mine, and you can keepthaton yours.”
I grab Ryker’s T-shirt in my fist and tug him towards me. I’m shirtless, so Ryker can’t grab me back, but he takes hold of my wrist in his right hand. I shove him, he shoves back. Keiron fans himself with his hand, watching us.
We both stop the shoving, but I don’t let go of Ryker’s T-shirt, and he doesn’t release my wrist.
Keiron pushes out his bottom lip. “Oh, don’t stop. I love you fighting over me.”
As a rule, Ryker and I don’t fight. We bicker, we argue, we get annoyed, but we’re not physical. The last time we had been was over a boy—Freddie. A thirteen-year-old Ryker admitted to me he liked Freddie as more than a friend and had done for a while. My brother, who had a crowd of friends, both boys and girls, looking at him like he was God,likedthe only person outside our family unit that I did. My reaction had been feral. I’d leapt across the room to get to him. Our parents had been forced to rush in and intervene, but right now our parents are in their villa in Spain and won’t be dragging us apart.
I back off from my brother, walk to the door, then slam it shut in Keiron’s face. He curses at me from the other side, but a minute later he stomps up the stairs, then the bathroom door bangs and the boiler in the kitchen kicks in as he starts the shower.
“I can’t do it,” I mumble at the door. “I can’t be his best man.”
“We said—”
“I know what we said, Ryker, but I can’t . . .”
Ryker sighs and drags a chair out from beneath the table. I turn to him as he collapses down onto it, head in his hand. “I don’t think I can either.” He scrubs his face. “Even organising the stag party. It’s going be the last time he’s with us, you know, on holiday, in the sun, drinking, dancing, me trying my hardest not to touch him too much, and you staring at his arse in between glaring at any man or woman who comes just that little bit too close to him.”
“Everyone comes too close to him,” I say.
Ryker laughs. “Territorial much?”
