Secret Relationship with my Brother’s best friend

JADE

"Bye, Amy."

I push through the heavy glass doors of the film building and step outside. The parking lot is half empty now, most students already gone for the day. A few cars huddle under the dying afternoon light. The asphalt is cracked in places, weeds pushing through like they own the place. 

I spot the bench near the bike rack and walk toward it. My bag feels heavier than usual. My feet hurt. And I am seriously considering murdering my brother.

Nina dropped me off this morning. Said she had a study group and couldn't wait. I didn't think much of it then. Now I'm standing here like an idiot, waiting for Marcus to show up, because apparently I'm incapable of planning ahead.

Why didn't I just drive myself?

Right. Because Nina said she'd buy me coffee if I rode with her. And I am weak for free caffeine.

So here I am. Waiting.

And Marcus is probably balls deep in some blonde right now.

I don't mean that as an insult. I mean it as a fact. My brother is a man whore. Always has been. Always will be. He dates women the way other people change socks, frequently and without much thought. Another reason Nina can't stand him. She calls him "emotionally constipated." I call him predictable.

I pull out my phone and type a quick text.

Me: 'Where are you? Been waiting ten minutes. It's about to rain'.

I wait. Three dots don't appear. Nothing.

Of course.

I scroll up to our last conversation. Three days ago. He sent me a meme about medical school burnout. I sent back a picture of my half-eaten sandwich. Normal sibling stuff. Now he's ghosting me when I need a ride.

Typical.

I call him. It rings once. Twice. Then....

"The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please..."

Straight to voicemail.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and sit down on the bench. The wood is damp from yesterday's rain. Great. Now my jeans are wet too.

I look up at the sky.

Dark gray clouds. The kind that don't mess around. The kind that soak you through before you can find shelter.

Seriously?

I try calling him again. Same result. Voicemail. His voice sounds cheerful on the recording. "Hey, it's Marcus. Leave a message and I'll get back to you. Probably." Probably. That should be his motto.

I'm about to leave a very angry voicemail when my phone buzzes in my hand. A text. Finally.

Marcus: Can't make it. Swamped with paperwork. Sending someone.

I stare at the screen.

Sending someone?

Who the fuck is this someone?

I type back fast.

Me: What do you mean someone? Who?

No response.

Me: Marcus.

Nothing.

Me: You cannot be serious right now.

The little gray bubble with the clock appears next to my message. Sent. Not read. He probably tossed his phone in his bag and forgot about me.

I grip my phone tighter. The screen flickers. I glance at the top corner.

Battery: 4%.

You have got to be kidding me.

I try to type one more message—Tell me who is coming or I swear to God I'll—

The screen goes black.

Dead.

Completely dead.

Great. Just... fucking great.

I shove the useless brick into my pocket and look up at the sky again. The first drop hits my forehead. Cold. Then another on my arm. Then my shoulder.

The rain starts.

The rain doesn't fall in one direction.

No. That would be too easy.

The wind takes it and slants it sideways, and no matter how I shift on this stupid bench, I still get drenched. I move left. Rain finds me. I curl forward. Rain drips down the back of my neck. I stand up. Rain slaps my face.

Unbelievable.

I've lost track of time. Phone is dead. Battery is a black screen of nothing. But I'm pretty sure it's been about fifteen minutes since I texted Marcus. Maybe twenty. My watch is in my bag. Not that it matters. Time doesn't matter when you're turning into a human raindrop.

My clothes are soaked through. My white t-shirt is practically see-through now. I cross my arms over my chest, but it doesn't help much. My bra is on display like some kind of wet t-shirt contest I never signed up for. I'm cold. I'm frustrated. My hair is plastered to my face like wet seaweed.

"Ahhh!"

I scream into the rain. Just let it out. One loud frustrated sound that gets swallowed by the gray sky.

The sound cuts off because a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up right in front of me. Parks. Engine still running.

No. No. No.

I will not be pitied by some rich jock who probably thinks he's better than everyone else. I've seen these types. Fancy cars. Tinted windows. They pull up to girls in the rain like they're doing them a favor. Like they expect something in return.

I clutch my bag to my chest. It covers some of the wet mess that is my shirt. I realize my bra is on full display through the soaked fabric and I feel my face get hot.

Why are they parked here? Hope they're not creeps.

The window rolls down.

Slowly. Mechanically. Like the car is revealing something important.

I just stare from where I'm standing. I don't move closer. I don't know who this is or why an SUV is parked in front of me in a college parking lot.

The car honks.

Once.

Twice.

Then a pattern: one. two. one. two. one. two. Again and again. Like someone tapping their fingers impatiently.

Are they crazy?

No way I'm getting into a stranger's car. I don't care how hard it's raining. I don't care that I can feel my underwear getting wet. I have standards. I have self-preservation.

I lean forward just a little. Just enough to peek inside through the open window.

A set of eyes meets mine.

Familiar.

But also unfamiliar.

Sharp jaw. Dark hair. A face I haven't seen this close in years. Those eyes look at me like I'm an inconvenience. Like I'm the reason their day is ruined.

Those eyes look... annoyed.

"Get in the fucking car, bean sprout."

Yeah.

Definitely annoyed.

That voice. Deep. Flat. Cold. I know that voice. I remember that voice calling me names when I was twelve, when I was fourteen, when I was sixteen and wishing he would just look at me like a person instead of a pest.

"Derek?"

My voice comes out small. Shocked. I'm frozen in place, rain dripping off my chin, and I can't move.

He's here.