Bro Code(8)

But wanting to hold on to my fantasy a little longer, I roll out of bed and scan the bookshelf until my finger falls upon the familiar bright blue plastic binding of my sophomore year edition of the Harrison High yearbook. I settle back into bed, flipping past football photos and ghosts of prom dresses past until I land on the spread of the freshman class. There I was, one tiny rectangular picture in a line of portraits preserving memories of hairstyles that we’d all rather forget. Even in that tiny picture you can tell how skinny I was. My curves didn’t really start showing up until after high school graduation, and by then, Barrett was already through his undergrad and in law school on the east coast.

I lock eyes with the teenage version of myself with stick-straight brown hair and a mouth full of braces, wondering if Barrett still sees me like this—his best friend’s lanky, metal-mouthed little sister.

I sure don’t think of him as just a hunky football player anymore, but then again, after last night I’m not certain I’ll be thinking of him any other way than naked, dripping wet from the shower. Still, talking to him last night was fun and, shockingly, less awkward than I would’ve expected after the shower mishap. But this is my brother’s best friend, and the rules, although not always spoken, are incredibly clear. Despite my lingering feelings for him, talking is as far as things can go.

I reach for my phone to check the time—it’s later in the morning than I thought, and the longer I wait to claim the bathroom, the slimmer the odds of any hot water being left for me. I slide the yearbook back into its place on the bookshelf, then head off to the bathroom. I make a point of locking the bathroom door behind me. No repeats of last night with me on display instead.

I miss the privacy of the bathroom in my apartment, but since moving back home to take over the plant, one of the very few things that has remained the same is my shower routine. From the moment I step into the bathroom, it’s all second nature. I turn the handle all the way to the right before shimmying my pajama pants off my hips, letting the steam inch over the corners of the mirror. Next comes the facemask, which I squeeze into my palm and smear across my cheeks and nose, my skin tightening pleasantly as the mask cements. With so much time spent stressing over Dad’s health and the future of the company, the few moments where I get to take a deep breath and focus on myself are more valuable than ever. These moments are what keep me sane.

After my shower I pick out a cozy red sweater that hugs my frame in all the right places and swipe a thick coat of mascara over my lashes. There's no point in applying a full face of makeup, there’s too much party prepping ahead of me. The whole house smells like eggs and bacon grease. Which I’m sure is the result of Mom’s excitement of having a house full of ‘kids’ to cook for again, but when I walk into the kitchen, Nick is the one laying bacon in a pan. Mom and Dad must have already left for Dad’s doctors’ appointments.

“Good morning,” I say, selecting an especially crispy piece of bacon from the plate that Nick has piled up.

“How'd you sleep?” he asks, sliding an egg off the skillet and onto a plate.

My face threatens to heat again at the memory of last night. “Not too bad. And thanks for cooking. This looks great.”

Nick shrugs. “I can’t take all the credit. I was totally prepared to eat cookies for breakfast. Barrett was the one who suggested something a bit heartier.”

I turn around and, sure enough, there’s Barrett, somehow making pouring coffee look like a sex act. I focus with laser-like intensity on the handle of the coffeepot to avoid letting my eyes wander up his forearms to his shoulders or worse - down to check if those sweatpants are showing off a second viewing of last night’s performance.

“Want some?” he offers. I snap out of it to see that, unfortunately, he’s gesturing at the coffeepot and nothing else. There’s plenty I want from Barrett, but coffee has very little to do with it.

“You might want to take that to go,” Nick says. “We were talking about heading out to pick up party stuff once we get these dishes done.”

“How about you two go ahead and I’ll take care of the dishes?” I offer. “Teamwork.”

As if on cue, Nick’s phone buzzes on the counter. He snatches it up and answers it with a sly grin.

“Hi Dana, I’m so glad you called back.” He presses his phone against his chest to mute things on his end. “Would you guys mind covering party supply duty?” he asks.

Barrett smirks, but agrees with a nod and a slow sip of coffee. I remember Dana, one of Nick’s high school flings. I haven’t heard him mention her in years, but who am I to stand in the way of his romantic endeavors?

The phone goes back up to Nick’s ear as he mouths an exaggerated “thank you” to the two of us before escaping up the stairs.

“Some streamers, a few balloons,” Barrett says. “Nothing we can’t handle, right?” He shoots me the sexiest smile and I clench everything.

“We can take Dad’s truck,” I suggest as I break Barrett’s gaze. “Plenty of room in the back.” I hesitate before adding “for the decorations.”

I can’t believe my luck. Me. With Barrett. Alone. I throw my half-eaten piece of bacon into the trash. Suddenly my stomach is too full of butterflies to make room for anything else. What was that pep talk that I gave myself about not going any further than talking?