My Best friend's Brother

“Fuck!”

I hoisted my tote bag higher onto my shoulder and broke into a jog, my sneakers slapping against the sidewalk. Four o'clock. My landlady, Mrs. Harlow, had been very clear on the phone this morning. Cash, Lucy. I don't care about your bank's "technical difficulties." You show up with my money by four, or I'm showing your room to someone else.

The bus stop was two blocks away. I had forty-three minutes. Barely enough time.

The universe, as usual, had other plans.

I eventually saw the bus I was looking for. A dozen people around there, all of them pushing and shuffling like they'd never seen public transportation before. I squeezed through the gaps, muttering apologies, one hand clutching my bag like a lifeline. My phone was already in my other hand, screen lit up with the bus schedule I didn't need to check anymore.

The bus doors hissed open.Yes.

Then someone slammed into me.

Not a graze. A full-body collision, hard enough that my bag flew from my grip and my phone flew across the sidewalk. I stumbled sideways into a man in a suit who cursed and steadied me by the elbow. My things scattered everywhere. Wallet. Lip balm. The crumpled receipt from this morning's coffee.

"I'm so sorry," a voice said. Deep. Close.

I looked up, but he was already bending down, scooping my belongings into my bag. All I caught was a flash of dark jacket and hands moving fast. He grabbed my phone too, shoving it into my fingers before I could even process what was happening.

"You okay?" he asked.

I blinked. His face was already turning away, scanning the crowd like he was late for something. Average height. Brown hair? Maybe. It happened so fast.

"I—yeah. Thanks."

He nodded once and disappeared into the midst of people boarding the bus.

I stood there for half a second, heart racing, then followed. The driver was already glaring. I swiped my pass, found a seat by the window, and pressed my forehead against the cool glass as the bus lurched forward.

Still have time, I told myself. Relax.

The woman next to me smelled like cigarettes. I pulled my tote into my lap and looked down.

And stopped breathing.

This wasn't my bag.

Same color. Same ugly strap. But mine had a coffee stain on the front flap, a ring I'd never gotten around to treating. This one was clean. Pristine. And significantly lighter.

I opened it with shaking hands.

Receipts. Loose tobacco. A folded pack of rolling papers. A paperback missing its cover. Nothing else. No wallet. No keys. No nothing.

No. I dumped the entire contents onto the seat beside me, the side pockets, anywhere. Empty. The man. The man who'd bumped into me. He hadn't been helping. He'd been swapping bags while I stood there like an idiot, thanking him for robbing me blind.

My throat closed up.

I reached for my phone. At least I still had that and my fingers met empty denim. My back pocket was flat. I patted both. Nothing. The panic that had been knocking suddenly kicked the door down.

He'd taken my phone too. In that split second when he shoved it into my hand, he must have palmed it right back. Or slipped it somewhere else. I didn't know. I didn't care. It was gone.

I turned and pressed my face into my hands, breathing hard. The woman next to me shifted away. I didn't blame her. I probably looked insane: some twenty-something girl shaking apart on a city bus at three in the afternoon.

Think. Think, think, think.

I didn't have my phone. I didn't have my wallet. I had forty dollars in my shoe. It was a trick my mom taught me in high school, the only reason I wasn't completely screwed and a bus pass that would get me to my friend's place if I didn't cry so hard I missed my stop.

My friend. Sloane.

I could call her from a payphone if I found one. If payphones still existed. If I could remember her number without my phone to save it. I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. I'd memorized exactly three numbers: my mom's, my own, and the pizza place two blocks from my old apartment.

Tears spilled over before I could stop them. Hot and humiliating, sliding down my cheeks as the bus drove through intersections I barely recognized. I wiped them with the back of my hand, then wiped again. The paper bag of someone else's sad belongings sat crumpled in my lap.

Cops. I could go to the cops.

But what would I even say? A man took my bag. What did he look like? I don't know. Average? Brown hair? He said sorry.

No cameras on that block. I'd checked before, back when I was paranoid about meeting dealers near the bus stop. Just blind spots and bad lighting.

Nobody was coming to save me.

The bus came to a stop. I looked up, disoriented, and saw the sign for Sloane's neighborhood. Right. I was supposed to be at Mrs. Harlow's in—I checked the bus clock—twenty-seven minutes. With no cash. No proof of income. No way to stop that woman from renting my room to someone who actually had their life together.

I stood up on shaky legs, shoved the fake bag under my seat, and got off the bus.

The walk to Sloane's apartment took nine minutes. I'd done it a hundred times. But this time, each step felt heavier than the last, my sneakers were dragging. By the time I reached her building, I wasn't just crying anymore. I was full-on sobbing, the kind of ugly crying that made my nose run and my chin tremble.

I buzzed her apartment. Once. Twice.

The intercom crackled. "Hello?"

"Sloane." My voice came out wrecked. "It's me. Can you—can you come down? Please?"

A pause. Then: "Lucy? What's wrong?"

"I got robbed." The words came out strangled. "Everything's gone. My phone, my wallet, my—" A sob cut me off. "I don't know what to do."

"I'll be right there."

The buzzer cut out. I leaned against the brick wall and slid down until I was sitting on the cold concrete, knees pulled to my chest, and let myself fall apart.

The door swung open ninety seconds later. Sloane stood there in her work clothes, still wearing her lanyard, hair escaping from its ponytail. She took one look at me and dropped to her knees on the sidewalk.

"Lucy. Hey. Look at me." She grabbed my shoulders. "You're okay. You're okay."

"I'm not," I gasped. "I lost the apartment. Mrs. Harlow—she's going to give it away. I have nothing."

Sloane's jaw tightened. Then she pulled me into a hug so tight. "Stay with me tonight. We'll figure it out."

"I can't afford—"

"Stop." Her voice was soft but final. "You're staying with me." But then she remembered her boyfriend lived with her.

I cried into her shoulder for a full minute before I could breathe again. When I finally pulled back, wiping my face with my sleeve, Sloane was already pulling out her phone.

"I'm calling Mason," she said.

My heart stopped.

"Mason?"

"My brother. He has that guest house behind his place. It's empty."

"No." The word came out too fast. Too sharp. "No, I can't—I can't stay with him."

Sloane raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You've known him forever."

Right. Forever. That was the problem.

Because I'd spent every single one of those years secretly, pathetically, hopelessly in love with Mason Chen. And if I moved into his guest house, there would be no more pretending.

But I couldn't tell Sloane that."Or would you go to my parent's?" she asked

"Fine," I whispered. "Call him."

She was already dialing. And I was already wondering how much more I could lose in one day.