The taxi driver drops me at the airport. As I’m paying him, he looks up at me with concern in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you seem like a nice lady—don’t let assholes screw you around. Okay?”

I smile and thank him before he drives away.

Funny that a random taxi driver is the only guy I’ve interacted with in person today who actually seems to have my best interests at heart.

I manage to make it through the check-in process without bursting into tears. But once I’m through security, I duck into a bathroom stall and let the tears flow. I sit there, my body wracked with sobs, and wonder who I pissed off in a previous life.

What the hell did I do to deserve every man I take an interest in turning out to be a huge asshole? I think I’m a good person—at least, I try to be. Why does the universe seem to delight in taking a huge shit on me at every opportunity?

I thought everything was going well. A new job, good salary, a gorgeous-as-hell guy who seemed to like me just as much as I liked him.

But now that’s all ashes. No way am I going back to work there, ever again. Every day would be like daggers in my heart. I can’t look at Brock, let alone work for him.

I sit up straight and pull myself together. Exiting the stall, I stare at my mottled face in the mirror. My makeup is smeared everywhere and I look like hell.

I smile a wobbly smile at myself, take a deep breath, and clean myself up.

I can get back up on my feet again. Nobody else gets to control my happiness—that’s for me, and me alone.

The flight is short and uneventful. I try my best not to replay events over and over in my mind. I even manage to get an hour or so of fitful sleep.

I get a cab from the airport. By the time the sun is just setting, I’m standing outside Dean’s house. The windows are dark—Dean’s not home from work yet.

I suddenly realize that I don’t have a key. I haven’t been here for a long time. Out of long-ingrained habit, I check under the one place I know it should be.

A smile spreads across my lips as I lift the potted cactus and spot the key, glinting in the last rays of the day’s sun.

Our parents used to hide their spare key under one of the many pots containing flowering plants on their porch, back in our family home in Denver.

After they died, the plants soon followed them until only the cacti were left. Then we had to sell the house because Dean needed to find some way to support the two of us while putting himself through college.

Dean was never much good at keeping plants alive, but this one solitary cactus seems to have survived against the odds. I guess old habits die hard.

I pick it up, reminiscing about better days, and let myself into inside. It’s been a few months since I last came for a visit, but as soon as I enter, it’s like being home.

It smells like Dean in here. It feels warm, comforting, safe. It feels like I’m with family even though he’s not here right now.

I wander through the silent, empty house, just soaking it all in.

Dean and I lived together in Denver until he got the job offer of a lifetime. He didn’t want to move to Seattle at first, but I was starting college at the time, and I insisted I was old enough to take care of myself. He finally relented.

I miss having my brother as a roommate sometimes. I’ve visited but never frequent enough or long enough.

My stomach rumbles, and I head into the kitchen, opening a cupboard. And there they are, just where I knew they would be. A jar of peanut butter and a bag of M&M’s, exactly where they belong.

I take them into the den with me, scooping up peanut butter straight from the jar with a tablespoon and rolling it in M&M’s. Normally, this sugar binge helps me feel better on bad days.

I munch silently as I stare at the TV. I don’t even know what’s on. It’s just something to focus on, background static to drown out my noisy thoughts.

It doesn’t quite work, though. That mental image of Brock and Rosa forces itself into my mind’s eye again. No matter what I do, I can’t chase it away. Another teardrop trickles its way down my cheek.

I’ve been so dumb.

Obviously, Brock was only being so nice last night in the restaurant because he was cheating on me.

He thought he could have his cake and eat it too—string me along for easy sex, all the while carrying on with Rosa like nothing had ever happened. The sheer arrogance astounds me.

He always seemed so genuine. How much of a psycho does he have to be to be so convincing? All those times I stared into his eyes, all those things he whispered into my ear as we made love . . . and they were all lies. It’s actually quite frightening, just how well he masked it all.

I turn on my phone—I switched it off for takeoff and never bothered turning it back on. I haven’t felt chatty, to say the least.

There’s a ton of messages, voicemails, and missed calls. All from Brock.

I throw the phone to one side, absolutely not interested in whatever fresh lies he’s concocted.

I’m surprised he’s even bothering. He got what he wanted, and there are plenty more impressionable, vulnerable women out there for him to prey on.

I saw what I saw with my own two eyes. What possible lies could he come up with to counteract that?

I eventually drift off to sleep on the couch, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself, the TV still blaring in the background.

I awake to the sound of the front door opening and a voice calling out my name.

“Nina? Are you here?” It’s Dean, finally home from work.

I sit up. My head is all woozy from the sleep and the crying.

Dean comes into the lounge and sees me, a tight smile on his lips. “There you are. I was kind of worried you might change your mind and not get on that flight.”

He sits down next to me and pulls me into a hug. I lean my head against his shoulder, taking comfort in the solidity of his presence, feeling like a little kid again.

Dean has always been there for me, ready to help me through whatever issues I face. I didn’t think I had any more tears left in me today, but I break down again in his arms.

He sits patiently, waiting for my tears to stop, letting me get it all out without a word.

Eventually, I stop. My whole body is tender, but at the same time, I feel just a little bit . . . lighter, now that my brother’s here.

It’s like I know everything’s going to be okay now. I can work through this. With my big brother by my side, nothing looks too scary.

“Okay,” he says, getting up from the couch. “Now that’s over with, why don’t I get a couple of beers, and you can tell me exactly what happened? I mean I’m not dumb. I think I’ve got it figured out, but let’s hear it anyway.”

I hear him pop open a couple of bottles, and then he returns, handing me one. It’s ice-cold.

I sigh in satisfaction after taking a gulp. Then I start talking, and I don’t stop until the story is done.