“Yeah, yeah, you literally say that every single time. All buckled in?”

  I snap my seat belt closed and put my hands over my knees and squeeze as Max rockets out of my driveway, head swinging left and right, possessing the magic superpower of knowing who else is on the road at all times (I think they call that situational awareness). She boots it down the street until we get onto the main boulevard that’ll take us to the 40.

  “Relax, you always make me feel like I’m some sort of speed freak,” Max says, turning to look at me, while I keep my eyes pinned on the road ahead. I don’t know why, it’s not like I’m going to see something she’s not.

  “You are, you speed demon. I don’t know why you have to accelerate to the speed limit every single time and then practically slam on the brakes. If I yak in here, it’s going to be your fault.”

  “You yak in here, and we’re going to have words,” Max threatens, her hands fisting around the wheel, and at least she’s not one of those lackadaisical drivers that drives with a single wrist on top of the wheel, like that’s going to do anything.

  I glance over at her. Her long, stiletto nails are royal blue, with some kind of holo sheen to them, like talons. Her dark brown hair (for now) is loose in wild waves, and she always has some sort of perma-smile on her lips.

  Is she smiling with disdain or amusement? No one ever knows.

  We look nothing alike, Max has dark hair, darker blue eyes, a stockier body with a tiny waist and wide hips; I’m the taller one with my mother’s strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes, and I did not inherit that child-bearing hips gene.

  Vick’s somewhere in the middle, darker hair than mine, lighter hair than Max (when it’s not dyed her preferred electric blue color). Her eyes are light brown, like golden maple syrup. She’s smack in the middle when it comes to height, too.

  Max circles Vick’s block a total of six times before we fight about her not fitting into a parking spot that she parallel parks into with speed and alacrity, my heart in my mouth the entire time. When I get out, it’s to find that there’s only millimeters to spare on either side.

  Parking in Vick’s neighborhood is always an exercise in futility even without the snow that’s bound to come, but Max locks up her car with three rapid beeps.

  She gets to the front door of the building first, and she jams on the button to Vick’s unit, thumbing at it until she’s making a song out of the noise and I’m about ready to throttle her when we’re buzzed inside.

  An elevator ride with Max is a version of hell on earth, her claustrophobia coming out in full force, but she always forces herself even though we could have taken the stairs up to the fifth floor.

  Vick is standing in her open doorway, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes sunken in like she hasn’t slept for months. Her cheeks are a little hollow, and all I want to do is cook and bake and make sure she eats something.

  “After getting so many threatening texts,” Vick says, voice raspy like she’s smoked two packs of cigarettes in a row, “I figure you’d bring out the big guns, Max.” Vick nods, jutting her chin towards me.

  Oh, I’m apparently a big gun now.

  Cool!

  “Yeah, you gonna let us in or what?” Max says, barging in, squawking at the sight of Vick’s kitchen. “Oh my God, how can you live here, you animal!? Is that mold? Victoria, is that mold I’m seeing?”

  Vick rolls her eyes after locking the door, adding the security chain while I glance around her apartment. It looks a hell of a lot like a bomb has gone off.

  “I had to prepare for another tournament, and I haven’t slept in a few days,” she says, and I will never understand how someone wants to be a pro-gamer as an actual job. Doesn’t that take the fun out of it?

  “I told you! I told you she needed help! Look at all of this.” Max waves her arms around, encompassing the entire one-bedroom apartment.

  There’s a nest of blankets on the floor in front of the TV, three different colored controllers on the carpet in front of them, a bright purple laptop sitting on the coffee table, running loudly, and boxes of cookies strewn everywhere, two bedpans sitting around the couches and I hope to God they’re empty, or at least have been cleaned.

  “Ah, Jesus, how can you live like this?” Max gapes at our cousin.

  Vick’s cheeks are flaming red under her pale, pale skin, and she just spears Max with a glance. “Could you not? I was going to get some sleep tomorrow and start cleaning up. Hop off my joystick,” Vick says through clenched teeth. “I’ve been working a thousand hours, okay?”

  Max whirls around, her bright yellow and blue eyeshadow reminding me of a colorful parrot, but one that’d rip your throat out if you got too close.

  “This is so gross, you’re being gross. You know you get like this. And you have to stop getting like this. This is bad, Vick. You’re not taking care of yourself. You’re just not.”

  Sometimes, I envy the closer relationship that Vick and Max have. Because of Vick’s birthday, they were both actually in the same grade, always dealing with the same kind of problems, even if I went to a different school altogether. There always was this special bond between them that felt like I was on the outside looking in.

  I know Vick’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but we all know she needs help sometimes. This isn’t the first time that she’s come off a gaming bender (or whatever they call it) forgetting to eat, or sleep, her body just burning out.

  I don’t understand it, not even a little bit. My cousin’s passionate about it, and it pays her bills on time, I can’t really have a say, no matter if I wish she were taking care of herself better.

  “All right, relax, relax. Vick, go take a shower. Max, see if you can get most of this in the dishwasher, and I’m going to go put a load of laundry on and come back and help you out,” I say, pointing in opposite directions.

  Vick goes to open her mouth to protest but Max just growls at her, tapping her talon-like nails along the surface of the kitchen countertop, tap, tap, tap.

  They do as ordered, and because I have no idea what’s clean or dirty, I just start grabbing all the clothes from the floor, making sure there’s nothing important in pockets of pants or hoodies or jammies (that’s a brilliant idea, jammies having pockets!). I set up a load of laundry for Vick, stacking everything into whites and darks for the next load and the load after that, too.

  Vick eventually comes out of the shower, her skin bright pink from all the scrubbing, her hair soaking through the shoulders of the fresh t-shirt she’s now wearing. I help her strip her bed of the old sheets and pillowcases, finding some deodorizer to freshen up the duvet, and then we start in on the living room where most of the damage is.

  Max makes gagging sounds every time she finds something that used to be edible lying around, and it’s clear that it’s been more than a few days that all of this shit has been hanging around.

  Vick picks up with us silently, and Max makes enough noise for all three of us.

  “I heard Brody’s back in the city,” Vick says, and Max starts choking on the very oxygen she breathes, dropping a throw pillow that looks like it’s seen better days.

  I mean, I was expecting Vick to deflect the attention off herself, but not like this, not like this.

  “Yeah, he’s actually my patient,” I say, keeping my voice steady, tight and even. I nod along, like it’s no big deal, wanting them to drop it, not making eye contact with Max, who’ll throw everything out of proportion.

  So we have a history, who cares? Who cares?!

  My cousins do, and I know I’m in for it.

  I shake my head, huffing at a discarded Doritos bag with cheese dust getting everywhere.

  “You need to deep clean this place when we leave, Vick. Jesus Christ, how can you live like this?”

  “Some of us can live in it just fine. I’m fine, all right? You don’t have to shove it in my face every single time. We all know you’re perfect, Amber.”

  I drop the Doritos bag as if it burned my fingerprints right off and turn to look at her. Vick’s eyes are welling with tears and she looks so tired and defeated, but I don’t think she wants me to hug her.

  “Oh, shit!” Max yells, hands covering her mouth. “This is actually happening? Right now? I need popcorn!”

  “Shut it, you,” Vick points at our cousin with a nail-bitten index finger, the skin around the cuticle bitten red and raw, like she does when she gets nervous. “Just…I’m fine, all right. I just want to go to bed. I’ll figure all of this out tomorrow.” Vick waves her hand around, encompassing the entire apartment.

  “I’ll be coming over to check on you tomorrow, and you better not be lying…” Max says, tapping her nails against the dirty mug she’s now holding.

  “We’re putting a pin in this for now,” I say, jutting my chin towards Vick. “The holidays are coming up, and we can’t be fighting. We’re not having a repeat of Séc. five.”

  Vick nods miserably. Max goes over to squeeze around her shoulders, dislodging something that moves out of the dirty mug, dropping it with a shriek.

  Something out of the primordial ooze crawls out of the mug with way too many spindly legs, and we all start screaming. I make a run for the door, leaving behind those two idiots to fend for themselves.

  I’m the eldest, and it’s survival of the fittest after all.

  FIVE

  Brody isn’t my patient anymore, which is fine, totally fine.

  People are allowed to ask for second, third, fourth and maybe even fifth opinions. They’re allowed to search for the answers they want for however long it takes for them to accept those answers. It’s got nothing to do with me.

  Even if it feels like it does, just a little. A teeny, tiny amount.

  Ah, hell, who am I kidding?

  Here I am crushing Brody’s hopes and dreams and eating them for breakfast. Ugh. Of course, he never wants to see me again, of course!

  So I’m super surprised when he calls me—again with the no texting. Honestly, what decade is he living in, and can he come join us in the here and now?

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, it’s Brody.”

  I nod, because yeah. Caller ID. “Yup. What’s up?” I keep my voice restrained, trying to keep it all to myself. Trying to keep it capped how very confused I am, with all these feelings coming to the surface.

  “Are you busy? Am I calling at a bad time?” His voice comes through rushed, like he really wants to know if he’s interrupting my day, my schedule, my life.

  “Brody, relax. Just say what you want to say.”

  He sounds keyed up, antsy, and from the background noise, I can only imagine that he’s walking outside somewhere, a car horn blaring in the background. I can just make out some muffled swearing in both English and French.

  “Did you eat today?”

  I glance down at my apple slices and almond butter that I have yet to demolish, but we’re nowhere near lunch time.

  I have to finish typing up my notes regarding my previous patient and upload it to our system, and that’s even before I have to also gear up for the next one.

  There’s nothing like looking and sounding like an idiot when I can’t keep them straight in my head, so I always take fifteen minutes (when time permits) to get myself reacquainted.

  Unfortunately, sacrifices have to be made and I will lose my mind if I get almond butter over my notes or on official documents. That would look so unprofessional.

  “Yeah. So, what’s up?” I ask, grabbing an apple slice and stuffing it in my mouth sans almond butter.

  “Why would anything be up?”

  Yup, he’s getting real shifty. As if I don’t know that tone of voice. “What did you do? Brody, what did you do?”

  My heart starts to pound, and I find myself standing up suddenly to pace my office, back and forth between the window and the door, listening hard.

  “Brody, what the hell did you do?”

  “It’s not…bad,” he hedges, voice hesitant and a little too quiet.

  “What did you do?” I demand again, pivoting on my foot to pace the length of my office again and again, all of my focus and attention homed in on what Brody’s saying, and what he’s not saying.

  “I just…it’s been hard for me, like I’m sure it’s been hard for you,” he says, as if I have any idea what he’s going on about.

  “Are you talking about this fake dating thing again? What? You can’t take having your mom and dad asking you about me on the regular? C’mon, Brody, welcome to my life. Suck it up.” I growl into the phone. I stab an apple slice in some almond butter, nearly biting off my own finger as I shove it in my mouth. It doesn’t help that I’m hungry and I’m irritated.

  “Why do you even care?” I ask around my apple, swallowing it down so it feels like lead in my stomach. “Why do you even care that it’s been hard?”

  “Hey,” he grumbles, and I know that tone of voice, too. “Don’t be like that, okay? It just slipped out…that we’re kind of seeing each other again. You have no idea what it’s been like.”

  I pull in a sharp breath, glaring at the closed door of my office, wondering how much exact force I’d need to kick it down.

  “Jesus Christ, you did not. You did not just let your parents believe that you and I are seeing each other again. Have you lost your stupid mind? What is the matter with you!?”

  I’m going to be getting calls, and messages from both of my parents, a string of emojis since they both have discovered how to use them on their phones. I swear, if one of them sends me an eggplant by accident, I’m going to jump off of the Mercier bridge.

  And now they not going to believe that we’re not dating unless there’s an explosive breakup in front of their very eyes. So I’m stuck between my parents’ hopes and dreams for my love life, and Brody Kane.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Brody says, voice calm and placating, and it’s infuriating.

  I rub at my throbbing forehead, tracing the length of the vein popping out there, and struggle to calm down, continuing to pace at a more sedate pace.

  Think, Amber, you gotta think. How can we fix this? How?

  “I already told you I don’t want to do this.”

  “You didn’t though, that’s the thing.”

  “Excuse me?” I hiss into the phone, pressing it hard enough against my ear that my tragus piercing sends up a pain signal at the intense contact while the pressure in my head skyrockets.

  “What did you just say to me?”

  Brody sighs, like he’s the exasperated one, and I’m going to kick his bad knee when I see him again. Like, I really won’t, but I’ll imagine it in my head and see imaginary-Brody crumple down to the ground in complete and utter agony and it’ll make me feel better.

  “You didn’t actually say no. You just gave me excuses.”

  I stop pacing and stand rooted to the spot. Okay, okay, he’s right. I didn’t explicitly say it. Did I say this whole thing was a dumb idea? Yes, I did. But you have to be from another dimension not to know what I meant.

  “You’re joking. You have to be joking. In what alternate universe do you and I make sense again? I don’t feel like faking anything with you. I don’t even want you to hold my hand—”

  “I don’t have to hold your hand. I just want us to spend time together, for however long you like so I don’t lie to my parents. Yeah, okay, lie any more than I’m actually doing, so, help a guy out?”

  Help a guy out? Help a guy out?!?!

  I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him!

  “Why? Why should I help you?”

  It’s been ten years since Brody broke up with me, and a lot has changed in that time, sure, but a lot, too, has stayed the same. That’s the part that terrifies the crap out of me.

  Brody’s gotten even more handsome (which is illegal, and I intend to sue within my rights), and even though his attitude seems to have gotten worse, he’s been in pain every single time I’ve seen him, and I know better than most that pain changes a person, usually for the worse.

  Still, still, there’s that part of me that has been holding onto the torch for him for ten whole years, waiting for him to realize how amazing I was, I am.

  I want to crush him for it, for making me feel like I was useless, another notch on his belt, that I wasn’t special to him.

  So what, do you want revenge on the eighteen-year-old boy who broke your heart? Really?

  I mean, I wouldn’t say no if you put a gun to my head.

  “Amber, please? Please, will you help me? I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Not yet. Tell me why you need me.”

  Brody sighs heavily. “You know why.”

  I shake my head, but he can’t see me. “No, tell me. I want to hear you say it out loud.”

  “Because no one has ever compared to you. And my parents, being my parents, are already treating me like my career is over from my injury, and that no one will want me now that my dreams have been ruined.” He sighs again.

  “Look, I’m exhausted from all of this, and to have them rag on me while under their roof is a step too far for me to accept. So, can you help me or not? I stand by what I said. I’ll give you anything you want.”

  I gulp hard. It’s the same story, but the coin’s been flipped.

  People like to think that it’s easy to overcome a sports injury, but not everybody remembers not only the physical toll on the body, but also the mental toll on the brain.

  We’re both trying to take the path of least resistance.

  Anything I want?

  What do I want? I don’t need money, and my house is in good condition, and my car works just fine. My parents are healthy, even if they’re steadily getting older and older (which sucks), and my cousins are relatively happy, if at times behave unhealthily. I have my work friends, I have my family. I can buy anything I want; I’m covered.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” I say, lying through my teeth.

  I want to forget all about him, I do. I want to stop remembering him as he was, stop hurting myself on the feeling of how besotted I was when I was with him, a stupid, love-sick fool who thought love conquered everything.