Page 5 of The Best I Never Had

“Owen, take me to our room. Now,” she says with such vehemence, such passion, that I almost come there.

“No,” I choke out. “Here. Right now.”

“Yes,” she sighs, her hands diving for the button of my—

A loud banging on my door makes me shoot up straight. A quick glance at my lap tells me I’m not the only thing that’s up.

This happens way too often. The memory of that weekend, of Thea in that insane dress, forces its way into my subconscious. Every few months, there she is, like she can feel me forgetting her and needs to reinforce her place in my mind.

It’s frustrating. She made it clear she doesn’t want to date me, and I don’t want to date her either. A woman like that would destroy me, run me into the ground trying to keep up with her. She’s excitement personified, while I’m … good ol’ Owen. Reliable, but boring. There’s no way a woman like her would go for me if money weren’t involved.

So why won’t she go away?

The taste of Dream Thea is still on my tongue, mint and a bite of the whiskey she favors. A fabricated flavor, since I never actually got a taste. In the real world, I didn’t drag her off the dance floor. I brushed off her question and focused my attention on my Uncle Dennis trying to twerk on the edge of the dance floor to fend off the same problem I’m fighting now.

But my mind is creative. It fills in all the gaps I left in our relationship. Fake relationship, I remind myself.

The door rattles again. “Wake up, Owen.”

I groan into my pillow, willing away my condition while simultaneously wishing I could sink back into the dream. I grab my phone and groan again: 6:57 AM. My alarm would have gone off at seven anyway, but I feel cheated out of those three minutes. Maybe my brain would have finally sealed the deal with Thea. No matter how many fantasies it creates—and there have been a lot of fantasies—sex seems off the table, like it knows no matter how hard it tries, it won’t do Thea justice.

Another knock. “Wakey, wakey, big brother.”

I never should have given my brother a spare key.

“Give me a minute, Harrison. Jeez.”

The knocking continues, picking up a rhythm that tells me he’s singing something under his breath while I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. His fist punches my shoulder instead of the door when I swing it open, his blue-green eyes that match mine cast to the ceiling like he’s watching an invisible music performance.

He smiles at my scowl. “About time, butthead.”

“You are a literal child, Harrison,” I say.

“See, if I was a literal child I wouldn’t be able to tell you that’s literally the wrong use of ‘literal.’”

I manage to hold on to my scowl for three seconds before breaking out in a smile. “Touché.”

I follow my brother through the open living space, and he plops himself down at the kitchen bar. I ruffle his hair as I pass, and the solid punch to my bicep is another reminder that Harrison isn’t my baby brother anymore.

I grab a pan from the hanging rack as I round the counter, pulling out ingredients from the refrigerator in a set of moves so practiced over the years of cooking for Harrison that I can do it mindlessly. I set about whisking the eggs and cheese together while the pan heats.

“No muffins?” Harrison asks, eyeing the counter of my long, narrow kitchen.

“Been too busy at work to bake,” I remind my brother, even though the work at our company has always run me more ragged than him.

I brew our coffee while the eggs cook, Harrison sitting in comfortable silence while I work. I fix his mug—three horrendously large scoops of sugar with a bit of the powdered creamer I keep for him—then pour my black coffee, gulping down the liquid and definitively not thinking about the fact that it’s the same color of Thea’s dilated eyes in my dream, most of the chocolate brown taken over by her blown pupils.

I don’t regret not kissing her when I had the chance.

Okay, 90 percent of the time I don’t regret it, and that 10 percent likes to run wild with what-ifs in my dreams.

With Harrison’s breakfast ready, I snag myself a banana from the counter and settle across from him. “I know you love me, but you’re not here for a pre-work get-together. What’s up?”

“Can’t a man visit his brother?”

I lift an eyebrow. “He can. But not before seven in the morning, and especially not when he’s going to see said brother in less than an hour at the office.”

Two years ago, when Harrison graduated from the small liberal arts college he went to in New England, he moved back home to join me at Hayes Electric, our family’s electrical contracting company. It was our dad’s dream, and he had worked tirelessly to make it successful. And to keep it successful, even after he got sick. He and I spent long hours sitting on his hospital bed, sheets of paper spread across it while he explained the ins and outs of the company. He was so proud that I’d take it over one day, even though he wouldn’t be there to see it.