Some choices are easy, like fudge ripple or butter pecan, some choices aren’t. Can you guess which one this was?
I didn’t choose to love him. I mean, he’s my brother’s best friend, for crying out loud. We basically grew up together. Matt spent every weekend at our house. We watched movies together, he begged me to bake him cookies almost daily, he told me every dirty joke in the book. He’s basically been my–very gorgeous–older brother since I was six. Without the blood connection, thank God.
How stupidly cliche–older brother’s little sister falls in love with his extremely fuckable best friend. My brother forbid it, of course. He took one look in my baby blues and saw the flash of interest the minute I started seeing Matt as anything more than Brandon’s annoying football friend. And while I have a huge place in my heart for Matt, Brandon is my brother and I love him more.
I’ve had to make a lot of choices regarding Matt in the twenty years we’ve known each other. I never let him know how I really feel about him. I smiled and congratulated him when the head cheerleader agreed to go to prom with him. I kept silent when he drunkenly asked me why his girlfriends all tended to cheat on him.
Nice guys really do finish last, I suppose.
Despite the fact that I wanted nothing more than to go to a college that would keep me near the object of every desire I’ve ever had, I ended up going to Columbia to study creative writing. 1,600 miles away from home. From my parents. My brother. From Matt.
A new city. A new me. I’d hoped to meet someone who’d take my mind off Matt. In a city of 8.4 million, there should’ve been at least one guy to strike my fancy for longer than a passing moment. No such luck. All the boys–and I do stress the term boys–at Columbia were either spoiled little rich kids there on Daddy’s dime or wannabe bad boys trying for some sorority girl pussy.
I might’ve been a sorority girl in college, but there’s no chance in hell I’d ever open my legs for some douchenozzle just because he sports an armful of ink and happens to wear leather well.
Despite 1,600 miles of distance, the only man holding my interest lives in Houston whose sole focus in life appears to be a ball made of pigskin and a field you couldn’t pay me to run.
My life is good, for the most part. I work for a fairly large publisher in New York, working my way up the ranks as a personal assistant. Of course, this means I spend most of my days running for coffee, picking up expensive suits I’ll never wear from the dry cleaners, and occasionally being allowed to pick through the slush pile the senior editors don’t feel like touching.
Yup, I’m living the dream. Right up until my brother sends me a text message: Great news! Matt got traded to New York! He’s moving there next month. Show him around? Don’t let him get too lonely, sis. Make him go out and have fun.
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