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When I dry out enough, he sits me on the couch and goes in search of tissues, taking my boozy ice cream with him. He brings back tacos in the plain brown paper bag of my favorite Mexican joint, though, so I forgive him. We eat in silence, staring at the blank screen of my TV. When the tacos are gone, the whiskey comes out.
Timothy takes a swig straight from the bottle and passes it to me. “You love him.”
My head drops, my hair obscuring my face as I clutch the bottle like a lifeline. I can’t deny it. “He doesn’t love me. You owe me ice cream, by the way.”
“It’s not over yet—I’ll be officiating at your wedding because he loves you. He’s just a self-destructive asshole under a lot of pressure. Give him a few days to regret it, and go to him. Tell him how you feel.”
No way. I shake my head and take a drink from the bottle, handing it back to my brother, who happens to be a liar.
“It doesn’t have to be this way, Jessie.”
“It does.”
“But you love him.”
I do, but I’m shaking my head. “I overheard you talking in the kitchen. I’m a convenient fuck. Not even a friend.”
My brother makes a distressed little noise. “He lied. I shouldn’t have pushed him, but he shouldn’t have said that. Trust me, it’s not true.”
“He told me to leave,” I say flatly. “It’s over. You need to get over it.”
“He’s scared.” Timothy insists.
I want to scream, but I’m afraid I’ll never stop. “Why is it none of you ever listen to me? Gimme that.” I snatch the bottle back from him.
Timothy shakes his head at me, staring at my closed curtains long enough I suspect he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open.
“Nic loves you.”
I jump.
Timothy continues with certainty in his voice. “You know how after his divorce he screwed around a lot?”
Oh my god. The laugh that rips out of me is unexpected and it hurts. Or maybe the pain is because Nic will be back to screwing around soon. My insignificance shoved in my face with every single tabloid.
“Surprisingly, Timothy, this is not helping.” I take a big swig of whiskey, coughing at the burn as I set it on the coffee table.
“Do you wanna know why he stopped?”
“Chafing?”
He laughs. “Hey, welcome back, humor. Glad to see Sad Sack Jessie hasn’t completely smothered you with her bullshit.”
I don’t want to think about Nic sleeping with other women. Before or after me. “The door is right over there.”
Timothy ignores my pointed remark. “He lived with me during the divorce, so I saw a lot. Heard a lot, actually.”
I groan, putting down the bottle so I can place my hands over my ears—not that it’s enough to block out his voice. “I don’t need to hear this.”
“You do. Because when you called on our birthday, he was there. I put you on speaker. You should’ve seen his face. It was like a bomb went off. After that, he stopped.”
My hands drop away. I remember almost nothing about that conversation, except when Timothy answered the phone, I sang him an insulting version of Happy Birthday. “Correlation does not equal causation.”
“Don’t throw your big words at me.” Timothy elbows me and grabs the bottle. “You weren’t there, you didn’t see his face. Ask Mina—that phone call made her a believer.”
I’m crying now. Or laughing. It’s a twisted combination of both and my throat feels raw, but I can’t stop. “Why is it so important to you that Nic and I get together? Can’t you just…leave us alone?”
“Because I made sure he’d never leave me for you.”
