Crashed

by Julie Kriss

  I wasn’t. That was the truth. Even when I was whole, I’d never felt like I was in competition with Nick. I’d been too successful on my own, and besides, I was the older brother. It was Nick who looked up to me.

  After the accident, our entire relationship had changed so completely that I wasn’t sure I’d ever understand it. Nick was my blood and my lifeline. He’d seen me through literally the darkest moments of my life, the moments when I didn’t want to live anymore. He was also the one who was still whole, the one who could go live the life I couldn’t. Jealousy was too simple a word for what I felt for my brother.

  Still, looking at Tessa, I had never been so glad in my life that Nick was married. If he was single, she probably wouldn’t look at me.

  “I will admit,” I said to Tessa, “that my brother is slightly good-looking. Not as good-looking as me, of course.”

  “It isn’t possible for any guy to be as good-looking as you,” Tessa said, and once again I didn’t know if she was playing along with the joke or not.

  “I’m glad you noticed,” I said, deciding to assume she was joking. “What happened with the casting call, by the way?”

  She pulled out her phone and looked at it, scrolling through her messages. “I haven’t heard from them yet.”

  “Does that mean no, or that they haven’t decided who to hire yet?”

  “It could mean either one.” She shrugged. “Welcome to the modeling business. Ninety-nine percent of your time is spent in uncertainty. That’s the job.”

  “They’d be crazy not to hire your boobs,” I said, since she’d complimented my comics. “I’m sure they were the best boobs there.”

  “Thank you, Andrew. That’s very sweet.” She smiled at me.

  A minute ago I’d been hot and awesome, and now I was sweet. How far into the friend zone was I? I had no idea, and it wasn’t even her fault. I kept myself in the friend zone, even though my working nerves really didn’t want to be there. I was truly fucked up.

  She was so close. What would she do if I reached out and touched her?

  I thought about it, and then I thought about what her face would look like when she rejected me. Sad and pitying? Or offended and angry?

  So I didn’t do it.

  We were friends. That was all.

  Fourteen

  Tessa

  * * *

  The bar I’d gotten a job at was called Miller’s. It was in a strip mall next to a cluster of big-box stores, near a gym and, yes, the Cheesecake Factory. It seemed like a decent enough place—more of a family-friendly pub than a dive. There was brunch on Sundays and local musical acts—probably terrible—on Saturday nights. I got four shifts a week behind the bar to start, with the possibility for five. I wore jeans and a black T-shirt with the Miller’s logo on the breast. Tonight I was wiping the bar after pouring four beers and making a gin and tonic for the few customers that came to Miller’s at seven o’clock on a Thursday night.

  I checked that the owner, Nathan, wasn’t in sight anywhere, and then I pulled my phone from my back pocket. I texted Andrew.

  Tessa: I have a question.

  Andrew: Here we go.

  Tessa: Does anyone ever call you Andy?

  There was a brief pause, and then he replied.

  Andrew: Andy? Did you just ask me that?

  Tessa: So the answer is no, then.

  Andrew: The answer is unquestionably, unequivocally, unapologetically, absolutely fucking no.

  The big words again. I loved it when he used the big words. I wished I had him on the phone, so he could say them in my ear. But I couldn’t exactly call him and ask him to talk dirty to me, so instead I texted him again.

  Tessa: Point taken. I have another question.

  Andrew: You always do.

  Tessa: My boss kinda, sorta came on to me at the bar tonight. What should I do?

  There was a long pause. The longest. My heart squeezed, then tried to climb up my throat in suspense.

  I didn’t know what I wanted him to say. Did I want him to be mad? Possessive? We weren’t dating or anything—we were friends. Did I want him to encourage me? I had no idea. I didn’t know what he felt, what he’d want to say. So I waited.

  Finally the dots appeared, and he answered me.

  Andrew: It depends if he’s your type or not. Is he?

  Tessa: Not really. He isn’t a bad guy, and it wasn’t creepy or anything. He’s over thirty and I think he’s divorced. It seemed like he was working up to asking me out, if you know what I mean, and not a Me Too-type thing. Does that make sense?

  Andrew: You’re saying he’s single and he honestly finds you attractive.

  Tessa: Yes.

  My stomach was in knots, and I didn’t know why. It wasn’t because of Nathan. Nathan was okay, I guessed. He was male and he was interested in me. I wasn’t a girl who slept around, but I liked it when a man was interested in me. I liked men in general. Ever since I grew boobs, I could get men to at least look at me, and it made me feel good. It was just the way I was made.

  If I was back in L.A., I’d at least give Nathan a chance. Go on a date and see what happened.

  And now, I was texting Andrew, undecided. What did that mean?

  “Tessa?”

  I looked up to see Nathan coming out from the back room, smiling at me. Shit. Four days on the job, and I’d been caught texting. “Sorry,” I said, putting my phone in my back pocket.

  “It’s fine,” Nathan said, coming around behind the bar. “I had to give in a long time ago. There’s no way I can make an employee work a full shift without looking at their phone.” He shrugged. “I can’t stay off it myself, so I may as well not be an asshole about it.”

  See? Nice. He was nice. He had brown hair worn longish and a pleasant face. He wasn’t fat. He wore a button-down shirt that was pressed. Since he was single, he must have pressed the shirt himself. That was a point in his favor, too.

  And I couldn’t help the feeling that if I went on a date with him, it would be a disappointment. That I would rather be with Andrew.

  Nathan looked around, checking that there were no customers who needed my attention. “Listen, Tessa, I’d like to talk to you about something. And please don’t take it the wrong way.”

  So he was going to ask now. Okay then. “Sure, Nathan,” I said.

  He smiled. “Call me Nate.”

  His lips moved as he said something else, probably asking me out. But for a second I didn’t hear him, because he’d asked me to call him Nate. Just like I’d asked Andrew about being called Andy.

  His words went through my head, and I realized I agreed with them.

  The answer is unquestionably, unequivocally, unapologetically, absolutely fucking no.

  I heard Nathan—Nate—out. I was polite about it. And then I turned him down. I didn’t want to be mean, and I appreciated the offer, so I told him I was “sort of seeing someone.” I didn’t tell him that the guy was my friend, and I’d just asked him whether I should take the date or not.

  Then someone ordered drinks. And someone else. An hour later, when I looked at my phone, I saw that Andrew hadn’t answered my question. He hadn’t texted anything at all.

  Fifteen

  Andrew

  * * *

  I usually did thirty pull-ups in a session. Today I did sixty.

  My arms were burning. So were my shoulders, my spine, and my abs. Pull-ups are easier when you keep tension in your legs and core. But my legs were dead weight from the knees down, so every pull-up was harder for me than it would be for someone whose legs worked.

  Sweat rolled down my back, my chest. I kept my abs flexed as I pulled, hauling my body up for rep after rep. My hair was soaked. I thought I might throw up.

  My front doorbell rang.

  I lowered myself off the bar onto the bench beneath it and picked up my phone. Looked at the security monitor. If it was Tessa, this time I was going to ignore her. I was too fucked up right now, too tangled to be near her.


  Since her last text to me last night, we hadn’t talked. And after her shift was over, she hadn’t come here to sleep. She’d gone home instead.

  I’d monitored the security feed for her, so I knew she’d come home just after midnight last night and hadn’t left her house since. Yes, I was fucking pathetic, but even if she wasn’t coming here I wanted to make sure she got home safe. I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t know.

  Even when she was killing me, I had to know she was okay.

  It wasn’t Tessa at the front door. It was my mother.

  I sighed. My mother didn’t visit regularly. Even though she’d made a sincere effort to get back into my life over the past few years, she still visited at random times, as if she came over whenever she remembered I existed. Donna the wellness therapist said that I had to “put healing energy” into the relationship with my mother. My real therapist, the one with actual qualifications, said I had to “set boundaries.” It was a toss-up to me as to which one of them was more full of shit.

  Still, I let Mom in. “I’m back here,” I called to her when I heard the front door close.

  Mom came back to the spare bedroom I’d turned into a workout room, with weights and lift bars fitted so they were easy for me to use. She was wearing linen pants and a sleeveless silk blouse, her hair—dark like mine, but streaked with gray—tied up neatly in a bun. My mother was in her mid-fifties, rich, a great dresser, and newly single. Frankly, she was a bit of a babe. It was only a matter of time before some rich, handsome guy snapped her up and married her.

  Then there’d be another wedding, another honeymoon. Another person moving on with their life without me.

  “Hi,” she said, coming into the room as I mopped sweat from my face and neck with a towel. She kissed me on the cheek and handed me a gift bag. “I brought you something.”

  “Really, Mom,” I said, but I took the bag. Since coming back into my life, my mother seemed to feel that she needed to bring me things—a book, a knick-knack, new underwear. She was also paying for Donna’s therapy visits. It was like part of her had the impulse to buy her way back into my good graces. But the thought was sincere, and she really was trying, so I didn’t have the heart to tell her to knock it off.

  “You’re really sweating,” she said, lightly touching my hair as I opened the bag. “Are you overdoing it?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, though I could feel shaking in the muscles of my arms and back. Thinking about Tessa saying yes to her boss’s offer of a date had made me wish I drank so I could black out my thoughts. Instead I worked out until I nearly fainted.

  She was going to go on a date with a guy. A normal, nice guy with legs. She was going to go on a date with him, and eventually she was going to sleep with him. Because that was what normal, beautiful, single women did in the real world.

  What did you think would happen, idiot? You should never have invited her over in the first place.

  I pushed the thought away and opened the gift bag. It was a set of DVDs—all of the Star Trek movies. “What’s this?” I said.

  “You like sci-fi, right?” Mom said.

  I did like sci-fi, in fact. I could watch any of these movies online anytime I wanted, but I didn’t say that. She was trying so hard. So I said, “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled at me. “Do you want something to eat?”

  I’d worked out so hard that my stomach couldn’t handle food right now. “No, I’m fine.”

  She looked me over, standing in front of where I sat, a frown on her brow. “Are you sure? You look thinner than last time I saw you. Have you lost weight?”

  “No.”

  “Really? What do the doctors say? You shouldn’t be losing weight, Andrew.”

  “I’m not losing weight.”

  “I just—”

  I reached out and put my hand over hers, closed my fingers gently over hers. “Mom, a glass of water would be great. I’ll change my shirt and come out in a minute. Okay?”

  She looked in my eyes, and her expression relaxed a little. “Okay.”

  I knew why my mother worried. The last time she saw me before she left my life the last time, I hadn’t seen her. I’d been unconscious in the hospital after I’d tried to kill myself by taking too many sleeping pills. It was my second attempt.

  According to Nick, our mother had come to the hospital and looked at me for only a moment. Then she’d turned to Nick and told him it was too hard. That all of it was too hard. And then she’d walked out of the hospital and, except for generous transfers of money into our bank accounts, she hadn’t talked to either of us again.

  Years later, Mom went into therapy—hence the acquaintance with Donna—and split up with our father. Dad was still incommunicado, but Mom decided to try and make amends. It was harder for Nick to forgive her, because Nick was the one who had watched her turn her back and walk out the hospital door. He’d been the one who’d watched her decide to leave the two of us to deal with everything on our own.

  Me? It was different for me. In a way, I understood why Mom walked out that day. I understood how I hurt her by doing what I did. I’d given up, and I’d tried to check out—twice. I’d thought I didn’t matter, that no one would care, that everyone would be better off without the burden of me. I’d tried to bail. I couldn’t exactly fault her for doing the same thing.

  And it was hard. All of it. Yet somehow, I was still here.

  When Mom came back, trying to make things right again, I forgave her. We still had shit to work out, and it would never be the same as it had been before my accident, but when you don’t have many people, like me, you make every person count. It wasn’t her fault that I’d done what I’d done, twice. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except maybe mine.

  So when she visited, I let her in. I accepted her gifts. I let her get me a glass of water.

  And when she left my life again, which she probably would, I could at least say I’d done that much.

  I didn’t keep any sleeping pills in the house. No Percocet or fentanyl, either. Not even alcohol.

  And if I hated the dark, I tried to remember that the sun always came up again.

  We talked in the living room. At first Mom sat next to me, touching my arm or holding my hand. Then she got up and fussed, checking that there was nothing wrong in the house, that the schedule on the fridge was right, that the housekeepers were doing a good job, that I didn’t need my laundry done. She talked to me about her life, her penthouse condo in downtown Millwood, her club, the charity boards she worked on. She talked about Nick and Evie—she liked Evie, though the relationship had taken a bit of time to warm up on both sides. Evie was suspicious of anyone who had hurt Nick as badly as my mother had.

  “They come back tomorrow,” Mom said. “The flight is a long one, but I think it gets in—Who is that?”

  She was looking out my front window. I pulled up my security app, my stomach sinking. I had a good guess who she was talking about.

  On the camera, I saw Tessa leaving her house and crossing the street, heading for my door.

  “That’s my new neighbor,” I said. “Her name is Tessa.” What the hell did she want? I didn’t want her here.

  “You’re friends with the neighbor? How nice,” Mom said. Then she looked closer. “Oh, my goodness. What does her shirt say?”

  I could guess. It was probably the shirt she’d worn on the first day she moved in, which said Get the fuck out of my business. “Um, she’s a bit eccentric,” I said. Dread was settling in my stomach. “I didn’t know she was coming over.”

  “What is she coming here for?”

  “I don’t know, but—”

  “It would be rude not to say hello if she’s your friend. Oh, and now she’s seen me through the window. I’ll go let her in.”

  “Wait, Mom—”

  But she was already out of the room.

  Sixteen

  Tessa

  * * *

  I admit it: I’d chickened out.

&nbs
p; I worked the rest of my shift last night without texting Andrew. Without calling him. I stayed in my overheated house last night, and I didn’t text him this morning, either.

  I went over and over it in my head. I should tell him that I’d said no to Nate. But then again, that sounded like I owed him that information, like we were in a relationship. Which we weren’t.

  He’d never answered me, so I didn’t know if he cared if I said yes or not. Maybe he didn’t. Did I want him to care?

  Why was I overthinking this? We were friends, right? Friends shared things that happened to them. I’d had friends before, even male friends. Why was it so hard to be friends with Andrew Mason?

  I was too confused to go to his house after my shift, to sleep in his bed as if we hadn’t had that awkward conversation. Being in his house at night, alone with him, felt too intimate.

  And here was the truth: I wasn’t intimate with people. Friendly, yes. Sociable, even flirty—yes. But my parents had treated me more like a friend than as their child, and I’d been on my own early in life. I’d never had a best friend or a long-term boyfriend. Relationships like that didn’t happen when you were trying to make it in L.A., where all relationships were shallow and a little bit selfish.

  Even when I dated guys in L.A., there was a question of what that guy could do for me—or what I could do for him. If one of us had ever actually seen real success, the other would have been gone in a heartbeat. The relationships I had were never the kind that could withstand any sort of test. And, I realized, I had kept it that way on purpose.

  It was easier. You didn’t get hurt if it didn’t really matter.

  But now, I realized the truth: Andrew mattered. Whether he was my friend or something else, he mattered. And by not texting him, by not talking to him, I’d been an asshole. No friend would act the way I had.