Page 120 of Silver Sweet

Eliot laughs, “See, you are hilarious.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, then searches the fridge for milk. “Beckett left for work already, so he’s not here to tell you to stop spiraling.”

I glance up from my phone. “Who? Me?”

“Does Eliot look like he’s obsessing over his text messages like he’s about to throw himself off the balcony?”

“Okay, first off, there is no balcony in our apartment, dude, and secondly, I would find more creative ways to off myself, and thirdly…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “We should not be joking about suicide with Ben in the apartment.” I pause. “Right?” I’m asking my genius brother for confirmation.

“Do I look like your therapist?”

“No, you’re not bald.”

Charlie bends slightly to a shelf, shoving aside the extra fruit we store for the bird. “I bought a half gallon of milk last week.” His accusatory eyes land on me, then Eliot. “Where’d you put it?”

“I did not thieve the milk.” As much as I would love to blame this on Mister Feathers, I come out and admit, “Igaveit to Luna. Okay, she was out of milk and trying to make cereal, and I was about to leave, so I did the neighborly thing and delivered it to our cousin—who you like. You like Luna.” I point at him, accusing him of having a friendship with my friend.

Charlie has an expression like he just smelled a nasty fart. Eliot and I don’t contain our laughter. Not even as Charlie slams the fridge, makes a shot of espresso, and takes it back to his bedroom.

It was a good distraction.

For a moment, anyway.

So is the short minute when Ben hikes his hockey bag over his broad shoulder and fits his blue baseball cap on backward. “I’m out for practice. See you for dinner.”

He reaches out to me as he passes, and we exchange a jock handshake: two slides of the palm, hook the fingers, casual fist bump, and I throw up a peace sign. “Later, Ben Pirrip.” For the record, he taught me the handshake, and I perform the bro ritual like I’m a professional athlete. No one would know I spent seventh-grade soccer crushing on the goalie and making excuses to hang back by our team’s net.

When he’s gone, I stare at the door, the time on my phone, and Eliot, who starts marinating chicken breast in balsamic and garlic for tonight. He makes a separate tofu thing for Ben.

I should be helping him.

I should.

But I bow over the counter and reread my messages. I see the time ticking by. “I’m sending him a voice memo,” I tell Eliot, and I click the microphone button in the text chat before I can conceptualize what I’m going to say. Gripping my phone to my mouth, I just word vomit. “Fuck you, dude. If this is your petty way of getting back at me because I what…called my longtime hookup who isn’t you? Get over yourself. Fuck off. Fuck you and your brother and your dog—I don’t think you have a dog, but your future dog. Okay, fuck him too.” I end the memo and presssend. “I’m done.” I set the phone on the counter and back away.

Eliot washes tofu juice off his hands. “Feel better?” he asks seriously.

“Not really.”

“You should slander all his future pets and progeny. Go all the way for ultimate catharsis.” He nods to the phone.

I grip the counter, unable to pick it back up. My heart won’t stop racing. “Now I’m thinking I might’ve sounded a little harsh. Childish?”

“No, you’re releasing your emotions. This is good for you.” He cuts off the water using the faucet’s sensor. “As long as you don’t send it to him.”

I slow-blink. “Dude. I already sent it.” Phoenix could’ve listened to my rant by now. He doesn’t keep his read receipts on, so I can’t tell. I take a breath. “Is it that bad, though? I mean, it’s how I feel.”

“Vrai,” he saystruein French. “He deserves to hear your internal thoughts.”

“Exactly. Yeah, he needs to hear them.” I’m trying to spin this in a positive direction, but I’m cringing at myself. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes in a long groan. Why do I feel like I’m screwing up at every turn? “Why do I still feel like shit?”

“Might be the hangover.” He dries his hands on a dark-blue dishtowel.

I squint up at the bright kitchen lights. “My eyes do scratch like sandpaper.”

“I’ll get you some eyedrops.” He puts a comforting palm on my shoulder as he passes. Two seconds after Eliot disappears down the hall, an aggressive knock pounds the door.

Holy shit, no.