Chapter Text
You're finishing up the day's work and putting your pencil away when the lock turns. You turn towards the front door, “Derek?”
When no response comes you furrow your brows and stand from your desk.
“If you're an intruder, you should know I've got my phone out and ready to dial 911 -” you call as you walk out of your office. You don't actually have your phone. In fact, you are pretty sure you left it in the kitchen the last time you went for a tea break.
“You mean this phone that I can see right in front of me?” A man's voice calls back drily.
You quicken your steps, coming to a stop in the living room. “Don't be an ass. I could have had another phone with me.” You say lightly as you take in the sight of Brendon standing just inside your door.
“Jesus, you're such an idiot.” He mutters, toeing off his shoes. “Please, for God's sake, don't fucking announce to the robbers that you're gonna call 911 -”
“It's a deterrent," you cut him off, but he just turns to you to give you a patronizing stare.
“It's a fucking incentive for them to shoot you, you ever hear of a first strike, dummy?” He shakes his head, “It's a deterrent.” He says in a mocking voice that's supposed to be mimicking your tone.
“Fuck off,” you say, used to his very own brand of assholery. “What are you doing here?”
“What, I can’t visit anymore?” He steps into the kitchen and begins to rummage through your fridge and takes a can of PBR out before shaking his head with disgust and putting it back. “This crap is all you have?”
“There’s bourbon in the cabinet there,” You wave towards the pantry. “You can open it.”
“Unbelieveable.” He mutters darkly, though it doesn’t stop him from reaching over to grab the bottle of bourbon. He reaches over and gets a glass from the cupboards with no hesitation, moving just as easily as he would have in his own kitchen.
“Rough shift?” You ask. You know his moods, know them better than probably most people alive. Brendon Park doesn’t reach for alcohol first thing after finishing work, not unless something went wrong.
He shrugs, taking a sip of the bourbon and grimacing. “Next time can you spring for some top shelf stuff please?” He chides, sidestepping your question. “What’d you do today?”
You purse your lips in disapproval but choose not to push. “Not all of us have a doctor’s salary.” You grumble, then brighten up as you change topic. “I finished the last page in my book.” You announce happily. The latest book you’d been illustrating is a whimsy tale about a groundhog desperate to see snow. You loved doing every page and can’t wait to turn in your work.
He raises an eyebrow, “Let’s see it then.” He says expectantly, and you scurry back to your studio to bring out the large portfolio. You lay out the drawings on the kitchen island, rearranging them slightly so he can get a good view of the entire set of illustrations.
“Mhm,” He hums and nods approvingly, “I like what you did with the gouache here.” He takes another sip and points to the snowy scene towards the end of the book. “Cute.” He pronounces.
“Isn’t it?” You grin, “I’m going to buy a copy for Madeline when it comes out.”
Your niece is only two, and her growing library is filled with books you’d illustrated, shipped carefully across the ocean to your brother’s house in Paris.
“They don’t give them to you for free?” He tuts, “Such a loser.”
You shove him, though you don’t have enough force to move him from where he stands, not when he’s expecting it and has planted his feet. “You’re such an asshole.” You whine, swatting at him when he gives you the middle finger.
He opens his mouth but is interrupted when the front door opens again.
“Babe?” Derek’s voice carries into the kitchen a second before he walks in, loosening his silk tie. He looks immaculate as always, his hair perfectly gelled, a tailored suit that you know he had to pay off on two credit cards. He stops short when he sees Brendon standing by the island, bourbon glass in hand. A brief flicker of annoyance crosses his face.
“Park,” Derek nods and walks past him. He grabs your waist and pulls you to him, kissing you soundly. You giggle, not used to this particular brand of affection from him. When he lets you go, he turns to Brendon again. “Didn’t know you were dropping by.”
Brendon just grunts, not even bothering to look at Derek. He takes another slow sip of his bourbon, his posture deceptively relaxed.
You know that one. You’d seen it a thousand times just before he ripped into somebody. You give him a pointed look and he scowls at you.
Derek frowns also, but doesn’t say anything else. He steps around you and goes to the fridge, pulling out the can of PBR that Brendon put back. Derek cracks it open, takes a long swig directly from the can, and lets out a satisfied sigh.
“God, what a day,” Derek says, leaning against the counter opposite Brendon. “The Q3 campaign is a total nightmare. The data metrics are all over the place, and my creative director is losing his mind over font sizes. I swear, optimizing consumer engagement is a young man’s game.”
Brendon let out a soft, mocking snort into his glass. You glare at him, and he doesn’t say anything.
Derek continues on, oblivious. “This new chick started with accounting and is on my ass about the expense account.” He scoffs, and shoots Brendon a commiserating look, “Can you believe these women? Always nagging.”
Brendon ignores him, and Derek’s smirk falters a bit. An awkward silence settles in the kitchen, and you jump in to try and improve the situation. “I finished the book,” you say, gesturing to the pages on the counter. “Cute, right?”
Derek squints down at the pictures, then grunts. “Ok, do they need to be here though? Come on, babe, you know I hate clutter. It blocks my creativity, right? We talked about this.”
“Oh. Um, yeah.” You hastily pull the pages back into the portfolio. “Sorry, I was just showing Brendon, so -”
“Is that what you were doing the whole day?” Derek asks, shifting his weight. He takes another sip of his PBR and peers around the kitchen, “Aw, your neck is gonna be hurting again from being hunched over.” He frowns at you and extends one hand out, gently massaging your neck. “You know, you should just get the AI to get it started for you, then you can just make tweaks, right? Nobody’s gonna be able to tell and it’ll save you a lot of neck pain.”
He takes another swig of the beer and doesn’t notice the way your face tightens. “That’s what everybody at the firm does. All these new ads that you see coming out? That’s how we do them. Saves time, saves money. Clients love them.”
You bite your lip to prevent yourself from saying something mean.
Brendon, on the other hand, has no such compunction. “That’s why your firm is going into bankruptcy, right?”
Derek falters for a moment, then scowls. “That’s not - what -” He whirls to you, “Did you tell him that? How could you -”
You blink, the breath catching in your throat. “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to. It just came up, I was worried about you -”
“I can’t fucking belive you.” Derek mumbles, his face flushed red from embarrassment. He pulls his hand away from where it had been massaging a particularly stubborn knot on your shoulder and looks indignantly at Brendon, “We’re not declaring bankruptcy, it’s just a - a lull in the market. You don't understand the creative economy—"
Brendon opens his mouth, no doubt to say something cutting, but you shake your head at him and he snaps his mouth close. Instead of speaking, he shrugs and looks away, pulling himself out of the conversation.
“Ok, I’m gonna put these away, and then maybe we order something for dinner, yeah?” You say, putting as much cheer into your voice as you can. “Brendon, you’re staying, right?”
He shrugs again.
Derek scoffs, “Of course he is.” he mutters, and pushes past you to stomp towards the bedroom, “I’m gonna change.”
You sigh, watching Derek go. “Be nice.” You hiss to Brendon.
He bares his teeth at you in a way that reminds you of the alley cat you keep feeding. “I’m always nice.” He says, ignoring the way you scoff.
In the year and a half you’ve dated Derek and three months you’ve lived together, Brendon has never warmed up to him. To be fair, he has never warmed up to any of your boyfriends, but he seems to particularly dislike Derek.
This was probably not helped by the fact that Derek seemed to not know what to do with Brendon. When they first met, Derek seemed nervous around him, like most people were. Brendon was an imposing figure. He was also, you could admit, a bit of an asshole. It wasn’t uncommon that people would shrink back when he barks at them.
After a while, Derek seemed to want to rile him up, pushing his buttons, making snide remarks. Brendon ignored all of it, which only seemed to make Derek more angry.
At some point, they had settled into the current awkward rhythm, where it seemed clear that neither liked the other, but both seemed willing to put up with the other one for your sake. You suppose that you should be grateful for that little bit of peace.
You settle yourself on the couch when you come back, scrolling through food options on your phone.
Brendon’s already seated in the armchair. He doesn’t say much as he drinks his alcohol, and only gets up to pour himself another one when he runs out. You peer at him over your phone, concerned. If Brendon’s stressed enough to come to yours after a shift, then he’s probably craving a burger. This you know as surely as you know the sun rises from the east.
Derek stomps out of the bedroom and flops down on the couch next to you. You don't look up from the screen, still scrolling through the menus. He puts his arm around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your neck. “Sorry babe,” He mutters, “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s ok,” You turn and kiss him, shooting him a smile, “I know work is stressful.”
“Ah, fuck. I don’t want to talk about work.” Derek says, then he turns to Brendon. “You do anything interesting, Park? Break any bones?”
“A couple.” Brendon says, and manages to get the words sound menacing.
You frown at him and note the way he avoids your eyes. Something happened during his shift, and it looks like you’ve got to pry it out of him.
Dinner, thankfully, is a quiet affair. You keep a steady string of chatter despite neither man being in a talkative mood. Once the food is done, Derek says he’s got a headache and is going to go to bed early. He waits purposefully for a beat, looking expectantly at Brendon. Then he shakes his head and walks away muttering to himself when Brendon ignores him and starts cleaning the dishes.
“You don’t have to do that.” You say to your friend, but you don’t stop him. You hate doing dishes and Brendon knows it.
“Yeah? You gonna do it? Is Derek?” He mutters as he turns the tap on at the sink with practiced ease.
“So …” You lean on the counter next to him and watch his face. You don’t push any more than that.
“Yeah, yeah, I was an asshole, what do you want?” Brendon says, “I’ll try to be nicer next time. Jesus, the guy’s so fucking sensitive.”
“Mhm,” You nod and continue to stare at the side of his face expectantly.
He doesn’t acknowledge your look, doesn’t say anything for a while. You rest in comfortable silence until he’s putting away all the plates in the dishrack. “You want me to buy you a dishwasher or what?” He asks as he dries his hands, turning to you.
“Ah, but then there’d be no reason to keep you around.” You reply with a grin.
He shakes his head with a huff, and then says quietly, “There was a fucking kid.” He stops, and your grin melts off your face slowly as you watch him clench his jaw. “I was gonna reattach his leg, it -”
He takes a deep breath and rubs a hand down his face. “Fucking moron of an intern didn’t clamp the artery properly, and -” He makes a face, you think it’s supposed to be a scowl, but you know it’s the same one he’s had since he was nine and broke his arm trying to do a jump on his bike. It’s the one he makes when he’s trying not to cry.
“Anyway,” he says, pitching his voice deceptively light, “I didn’t fucking get to do the reattachment.”
You reach out and pat his arm. When he doesn’t move, you step forward and give him a hug. He’s so tall, has been so much taller than you since his growth spurt in high school, that when you hug him you lay your head on his sternum.
“I’m sorry, Brendon.” You murmur into his chest. You’re not sure if he hears you, but it’s ok. You just hold him. Until he starts fidgeting, then you let go. He looks away, and you pretend not to notice the wateryness of his eyes. “I should go.” He sighs, “I fucking hate this apartment by the way, it’s -”
“Further than where I was before,” You finish his sentence for him, “I know, I know. But Derek’s lease wasn’t up and he wanted to stay closer to his work.”
“Sounds like he’s gonna have to look for new work soon.” Brendon shrugs, sounding slightly smug.
“It’s a lull in the market -” You try to defend your boyfriend and Brendon snorts.
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, “I just don’t understand the creative economy.” He says in a nerdy voice that sounded nothing like Derek but was probably supposed to.
You shove him, and he ruffles your hair in retaliation. “See ya later, dummy.” He says, and presses a kiss to the top of your head, the same way he’s done for nearly three decades. “Don’t forget to lock the door after I go.”
You putter around the kitchen for a bit after he leaves, tidying up a couple of things before you decide to join Derek in bed. He’s on his phone when you open the door, and puts it facedown on the nightstand when you walk in. “Hey.” He says softly, giving you a smile. “Did Park leave?”
“Yeah,” You nod and start getting ready for bed. “I thought you had a headache, that screen can’t be good for you.”
“I didn’t really have a headache.” He says, “Just didn’t want to hang out with him.”
You pause, fingers still gripping the bottom of your shirt. “Oh, Derek - you should have said something, I could have -”
He laughs derisively and shakes his head, “Yeah, right. I’m gonna tell you to kick out your lifelong best friend.”
You frown, “Well, I didn’t mean to exile you to the bedroom. We could have gone somewhere else.”
He looks at you and shrugs, “It’s fine. I know you’re close.” Then, like he can’t help himself, he adds, “Hey, you think he’s still gonna be coming around so much when we get married?”
“Wh- when we get married?” You sputter, the question catching you by surprise.
He grins at you, eyes bright in the dim light of the bedroom,”Well yeah, not like…right this second but…eventually?”
You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from smiling, “Um, yeah,I mean, I don’t know.” You feel yourself getting flustered at the thought of a proposal in the future. “Maybe?”
You say it like a question, though you find there’s a slight sense of dread in your heart as you imagine seeing less of Brendon.
You’d worry about him.
Derek hums thoughtfully, then picks the phone back up again. “Alright.” he says, like your answer has cemented something in his mind.
The first time you met Brendon Park you were five, he made fun of your shoes. He called you dummy, and you pushed him. He wasn’t so big then, and he fell on his bum and started crying. It scared you so much that you started crying too.
Thus was your friendship cemented, with tears and snot and stuttering apologies that your teacher forced out of the both of you.
You spent all of elementary school glued to each other (except for an ill-fated two-week period in grade two when you were convinced he had cooties). So inseparable were you that the teachers stopped trying to pair you up with other children in group projects.
High-school had been a tough transition. He had his growth spurt, and suddenly there were all these girls hanging around him. He made the basketball team, then the football team, and his circle of friends expanded to people who really wanted nothing to do with you.
That was fine though, because he always seemed happy to blow them off and go with you to those “nerdy art museums” on the weekends. And he didn’t mind that you stayed late in the studio at school, trying to figure out how to paint clouds so they don’t look like blobs. It just meant he got more time to practice whatever sport he was playing that week.
He took you to junior prom when your date caught mono and had to cancel last-minute, even though he had told all his friends that the dance was stupid and he wasn’t going to go. He had dressed in his dad’s suit that was somehow too small for his broad frame and danced with you even as you sniffled about missing your chance to dance with Peter Cho, the guy you’d had a crush on for half a year.
He had grumbled during the entire song, about how uncomfortable his tux was, how terrible the shoes were, how the music was dumb, and the gym smelled like BO, and how you better be buying him dinner after because he can’t believe he has to do this.
But he had done it.
Then, you fought.
He had been accepted to premed in Baltimore, you got into SAIC in Chicago. It wasn’t that far, but further than you’d been in over a decade. He had said cruel things to you, about how you could learn to draw just as well in Baltimore as you could in Chicago, about how unrealistic it was to go into fine arts, what a waste it was when your STEM grades were better than his and your SAT scores were in the top five percentile. About how you should think about premed again, how JHU was the best in the country and would maybe accept a transfer if you tried. You stayed silent the entire time, letting his rage wash over you.
He was still in a mood when he showed up at your house to help you pack.
"You're going to get mugged," he had muttered, taping up a cardboard box full of your sketchbooks. "The second you step off the train, someone is going to steal your wallet and then what?."
"I'll be fine, Brendon," you sighed, wrapping a mug in newspaper. "And I'll call you every week. Promise."
"Don't bother. I'll be busy studying actual science, not finger-painting," he snapped, hoisting the heavy box onto his shoulder with ease.
He maintained that hostile indifference right up until he dropped you off at the station. He didn't hug you. He just shoved his hands in his pockets, told you not to do anything stupid, and walked away before you could hug him. You cried the entire way to Chicago, so much that the person sitting next to you looked for another empty seat and switched away.
Two days later, at 11:00 PM, your phone rang.
"My roommate clips his toenails in the common room," Brendon's voice barked over the line the second you picked up, sounding furious. "I am going to fucking strangle him with his own bedsheets."
You smiled into your terrible, lumpy dorm pillow, the homesickness evaporating. "Hi, Brendon."
"Are you eating?" he demanded. "Because I know how you get when you're drawing, you just forget to consume calories like a total moron. Go eat a sandwich right now, and stay on the phone while you do it so I know you're chewing."
He called every week for four years.
The transition into actual adulthood was brutal. You were struggling to get your foot in the door as an illustrator, taking terrible commission jobs just to pay rent. He was a first-year resident, not knowing where he was going to end up, functioning on three hours of sleep and an unhealthy amount of black coffee and redbull.
You were both back in the same city, but you barely saw him.
When you did, it was at odd hours. He would let himself into your apartment with his spare key and crash on your couch, you’d walk out of your bedroom to find him snoring away, legs curled up in the most uncomfortable position.
But on his days off, he still went with you to walk the art galleries, and grumbled the entire time about it. He met the guy who asked for your number in the coffee shop, and scared him off a month later when he didn’t take well to you breaking up with him. You stayed over at his place the one time he caught some horrible flu and couldn’t move from the bathroom, then he stayed with you when you caught it a week later, calling in favors to switch shifts at the hospital.
He told you, one night as you were watching reruns of Seinfeld, that he was thinking of specializing in orthopedics.
“Like those special insoles at Costco?” you ask, not taking your eyes off of Kramer on the TV.
“No. Bones, dummy.” He said, pinching your arm. “God, did none of my intelligence rub off on you? How are you still so dumb. It’s like talking to a five year old.”
You threw a pillow at his head.
You generally avoid going to his place. It’s right in the middle of the downtown core, which means sitting in forty-five minutes of bumper-to-bumper gridlock just to get to his building. You spend half the drive cursing Brendon Park’s name and his refusal to live anywhere that doesn't have a skyline view.
Still, you make the trek unannounced on Thursday evening.
You let yourself in with the spare key he had thrown at your head the day he moved in, narrowly missing hitting you in the eye.
His condo is quiet, the evening light casting long shadows across the dark hardwood floors. You sigh, it is a nice apartment, traffic notwithstanding. And it’s got really just the perfect lighting.
Not that you’d ever tell him that.
You drop your bag on the kitchen island and pull out the stiff vellum envelope you brought with you. You walk over to the single, sleek black frame hanging right next to his massive espresso machine.
Brendon hates clutter, and he didn’t bother to decorate the place when he moved in. Except for this one frame. It held a piece from your very first commission even though you maintain it didn’t actually count since he was the one paying you for it.
Then, you had improved so much during art school that you’d eventually insisted on switching it out for better work. Now, every couple of months, you come over and replace the drawing inside with a new one. They are always just for him; never published, never posted online.
You pop the back of the frame open, carefully removing the winter landscape you’d drawn back in January. In its place, you slide in the new one. It’s a charcoal sketch of his hands, subjects you’ve drawn a hundred times over, so familiar with the heavy knuckles and faint scars that you could probably draw them blind. You secure the frame back on the wall, adjusting it so it hangs perfectly straight.
With that done, you wander over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Sitting in the sunlight are a fiddle leaf fig and a pothos. You bought them for him years ago, tired of the way his apartment felt sterile. He had immediately told you that he would not be taking care of them. But it’s been so long now, and both plants have more than doubled in size and are thriving.
You smile to yourself, heading back to the kitchen to fill a glass of water. You're happily puttering around, pouring the water into the pothos, when you hear the heavy click of the front door unlocking.
You turn around, ready to share the good news, and the words die instantly in your throat.
Brendon stumbles through the entryway, but he isn't alone. His hands are firmly gripping the waist of a woman. And she is stunning. She is tall, wearing a sleek, expensive-looking trench coat, with perfectly glossy dark hair cascading down her back.
She could be a model.
They are locked in a kiss and neither of them even notices you standing ten feet away. The woman has both of her hands tangled in Brendon's hair, pulling him close. Brendon’s hands are sliding down her back, gripping her ass tightly as she moans into his mouth.
You stand frozen by the windows, the glass of water suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in your hand. Your breath catches, a strange, hollow ache blooming rapidly in the center of your chest.
You don’t think you’d ever been kissed like that.
The woman starts reaching for Brendon’s belt, her moans getting louder as he starts to knead her ass.
A high-pitched squeak escapes your lips.
Brendon snaps his head up. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with lust, lock onto you standing in the middle of his living room. For a fraction of a second, he just stares at you, and you can read the confusion in his eyes plain as day. Then, the haze clears. He scowls and takes a step back from the woman, holding her at arm’s length.
“What the fuck.” She exclaims, turning around to look at you. “Who the fuck is this?”
“My sister.” Brendon says, even though you look nothing alike.
“S-sorry.” You squeak, “I didn’t know you were going to have company.”
The woman gives you a once-over, expression suspicious. “Your…sister?”
“Yeah,” Brendon says darkly. “This is Melody.” He nods to the woman.
“Melanie.” She snaps.
“Melanie. Sorry.” Brendon says, though he’s still glaring at you. “Would you excuse us? I need to talk to my sister.”
He turns and looks at her, and she whips around to stare at him, “You - you want me to leave?”
“Yeah.” Brendon nods.
The woman is now visibly annoyed. “Ok, are you - are you going to call me?”
“Sure.” Brendon says blithely.
“Ok, so … do you want my number?” She asks, tilting her head.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He nods and takes a piece of paper from the drawer. “Here, write it down.”
She gives him a weird look, like she can’t believe he’s not just handing his phone over. But you know Brendon’s got a thing about handing people his phone. Never trusting them enough.
She huffs again in annoyance, scribbles her number down, and shoots you one last glare. “You better make this up to me.”
Brendon takes the piece of paper from her and hums noncommittal. He locks the door behind her after she stomps off, and turns to you with a dark expression.
“I’m sorry -” You blurt out, one hand over your hand to prevent yourself from giggling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were gonna -”
“You had better be here for a good reason.” He growls, “Because that was a sure thing I just let walk away.”
“Ew,” You wrinkle your nose.
Brendon doesn’t say anything. He just walks past you, crumples up the piece of paper with the phone number on it, and casually tosses it into the stainless steel trash can.
“Hey!” You gasp, “What if she was the one?”
“She’s not the one.” Brendon growls without pause, walking over to the fridge to pull out a bottle of sparkling water. “Now, answer the question. Why are you here? It’s Thursday. You hate driving downtown during the week.”
You swallow hard, your fingers nervously twisting together. The image of his hands gripping that woman’s is still burning brightly in your mind, making your pulse jump in a way you are desperate to ignore.
It’s been too long.
“I came to change the drawing,” you say softly, gesturing toward the espresso machine.
Brendon pauses, his hand on the fridge door. He looks over at the black frame, taking in the charcoal sketch of his own hands. The set of his shoulders softens for a fraction.
“Right,” he mutters, twisting the cap off his water. He leans against the kitchen island, crossing his arms over his chest. “Okay, the drawing is changed. But you’re still standing here vibrating like a Chihuahua. So, what did you get yourself into this time?”
You take a deep breath, the nervous energy finally bubbling over.
“I …” You lick your lips, suddenly wishing you also had some water to drink if only to find something to do with your hands. “I think Derek is going to propose.” you blurt out, the words tumbling out in a rush. “He’s been acting really secretive lately, he’s on his phone a bunch, texting a lot. But he puts it away when I show up. And…and I found a receipt from a jewelry store in his jacket pocket last week.”
Brendon goes completely still.
“I think he’s going to propose,” you repeat, your voice dropping to a whisper. You look down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “And... I think I’m going to say yes.”
The silence stretches out. You wait for him to say something, to make a sarcastic comment about Derek, or to call you dumb like he does, but nothing comes.
You look up. Brendon is staring at a fixed point on the granite counter, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle is feathering in his cheek. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the bottle. When he notices your gaze though, his expression shifts to something blank. The one you’d always hated.
“Alright then.” He nods. “Shouldn’t you be with him? What are you doing here?”
You roll your eyes, “I thought you might…have an opinion.”
Brendon lets out a harsh breath through his nose. He looks away, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the darkening city skyline.
“My opinion,” he repeats slowly. “Fine. He’s... fine. He has a stable job. He wears nice suits. He probably has excellent credit.”
You frown, stepping closer to the island. “Brendon. Stop that.”
“I’m just answering your question.” he snaps, turning back to you.
“No, you didn't.” you push back, your own frustration flaring. “For my entire life, you’ve never held back your opinion on anything. You spent twenty minutes last week telling me why my brand of deodorant was a scam. So why are you holding back now? Tell me your real opinion.”
Brendon stares at you, then his mouth twists, and you take a half step back. Because there have been very, very few instances when you’d seen him look genuinely angry at you. And he’s definitely angry now.
“You want my opinion?” he growls, his voice dropping into a low register. He slams the bottle down on the counter. “Fine. My real opinion is that you would be a real idiot if you said yes.”
You blink, startled by the sheer force of his words. “What? Why?”
“Because he is completely wrong for you!” Brendon steps around the island, invading your space, his massive frame towering over you. “Because he looks at the art you pour your soul into and he tells you to let an algorithm do it so you can save time! Because he complains about your sketchbooks being ‘clutter’ in your own damn apartment!”
“He’s just stressed about work -”
“He doesn't see you!” Brendon interrupts, his voice cracking with a fierce, protective intensity. “He wants a quiet, convenient girlfriend who works from home so she can tidy and cook. He doesn't respect your career, he doesn't respect your talent, and he damn sure doesn't respect you enough to let you be yourself!”
You stand frozen, your breath caught in your throat. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes.
“He is a fucking loser,” Brendon says, finally, his voice lowering, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares down at you, “And if you marry him, you’re going to spend the rest of your life folding yourself into a tiny little box just so he doesn't feel uncomfortable. You’re either going to be miserable for the rest of your life, or you’re going to actually do something smart and divorce his ass at some point. So yeah, I think you would be an idiot to say yes to him.”
A hot flush of defensive anger rises in your chest, rushing in to cover up the tiny, terrified voice in your head that whispers he might be right about all of it. You step back from him, annoyed that he’s using the stupid intimidation tactics on you that you’d seen him use on others.
"He's not a loser!" you shoot back, your voice trembling. "He takes care of me, Brendon. You only see the bad moments, but he can be quite sensitive and very sweet."
Brendon lets out a harsh, incredulous laugh, dragging a hand through his hair, “Yeah? Like when he got you a fucking prepaid MasterCard for your birthday?”
"You're just—you're just being an elitist jerk," you stammer, stepping forward, pointing a shaking finger at his chest. You don’t want to think about your birthday, because yes, that had been quite devastating. "Just because he doesn't buy the most expensive gifts for me doesn’t mean he’s not -” You have to pause to catch a breath, “He works hard. He loves me."
"He loves that you're convenient," Brendon sneers. Whatever mask of civility he had worn for Derek was completely forgotten now. His eyes are dark and ruthless, and remind you of his nickname. "But I shouldn't be surprised. You’ve always had absolute garbage taste in men."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he fires back, leaning in close, his voice dropping into a mocking, arrogant tone that makes you want to hit him. "Derek was supposed to be a rebound! He was supposed to be a boring, safe palate cleanser after that pathetic acoustic guitarist you dated. But somehow, you’ve dragged this out for a year and a half because you're too soft, and you just don’t know how to break up with deadbeats!"
The words hit you like a physical slap. The breath rushes out of your lungs, leaving behind a burning ache. You stare at him, your vision blurring with hot, furious tears. He has called you a dummy a million times. He has made fun of your clothes, your clumsiness, and your car. But he has never spoken to you with such genuine, biting contempt.
"How dare you," you whisper, your voice shaking. Then, the anger boils over, hot and uncontrollable. "How dare you!" you yell, shoving him hard in the chest.
He doesn't budge and it makes you more angry.
"You don't get to talk to me like that!" you shout, grabbing your bag off the island so violently you knock his sparkling water over. The bottle clatters against the granite, water spilling everywhere, but neither of you looks at it. "Just because you are miserable, and emotionally stunted, and can't keep a woman long enough to get to know her, does not mean you get to ruin my happiness!"
Brendon goes completely rigid, his jaws clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grinding.
"I came here because I wanted my best friend to be happy for me," you choke out, a tear finally escaping and tracking hotly down your flushed cheek. "But you're just... you're just a mean, bitter asshole, Brendon."
You turn on your heel, practically running toward the entryway. You grab the handle of the heavy door, wrenching it open, but before you step out into the hallway, you turn back to look at him one last time. He hasn't moved from the kitchen island.
"I'm going to say yes," you tell him, your voice cracking, "And if you can't even try to be happy for me... then…then…maybe you shouldn't be in my life anymore."
You wait a second for him to respond. To say anything, to do anything. But he stands there, looking at you with an inscrutable expression, silent as a statue. You close your eyes, tears spilling over, and slam the heavy door shut behind you.