My brother’s house was in one of Millwood’s suburbs, on a street of one-story bungalows dating from the seventies. Most of his neighbors were factory workers and secretaries, and like me, Andrew didn’t fit in with his neighbors. But he had different reasons than I did.

I picked up two cups of coffee on my way and when I pressed the buzzer at his front door, I made sure to wave the cups in front of the security camera. There was barely a heartbeat before Andrew buzzed me in.

He was in his computer room, which used to be the living room, where some seventies family would watch TV. Now it was filled with expensive custom equipment and piled-up dishes. Andrew was at one of his keyboards, typing code, and he barely glanced up when I came in the room.

“You look like shit,” he said, going back to his typing.

I put the coffees down on the edge of a messy, overcrowded desk. “I didn’t realize it was a beauty contest.”

“Good, because you’d fail.”

“Tough crowd,” I said. “I guess I’ll just drink these two coffees by myself, then.”

“Fuck you, Mason,” Andrew said. “Give me one of those before I wheel over there and kick your ass.”

Andrew was my older brother, and my only sibling. He was a programmer. He was also in a wheelchair, since he was in a car accident five years ago at age twenty-three. This was the reason he lived in an old bungalow—because there were no stairs. If you think this is some sad story about a guy in a wheelchair, think again.

“You really do look like ass,” he said when I handed him his coffee. “What’s going on?”

I sat down and swigged my coffee. Andrew was wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt, four days’ worth of beard on his jaw. He lived alone and didn’t give much of a shit about his appearance. Kind of like me, except I had a Chihuahua and I could still walk.

Andrew was also the only person I talked to regularly, so I came out with it. “Gina screwed some other guy,” I said. “I caught them together and punched him. Now we’re over. Oh, and I’m stuck with her stupid dog.”

Andrew lowered his coffee and his eyes went wide. “Oh shit.” He paused. “You’re stuck with her dog?”

I glared at him. “You are such an asshole.”

“Okay, okay. I couldn’t help it.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that, man. That sucks.”

We were quiet for a minute. This was our version of an emotional moment.

“At least you punched him,” Andrew finally said. “Did he bleed?”

I flexed my sore knuckles. The anger rose up for a second, pure and red and hot. I’d thought I was done with it, but I needed a session at the boxing gym. “Yeah, he bled.”

Andrew swigged his coffee. His hair and eyes were darker than mine, his face thinner and more sharp because of what he’d been through, his body a little smaller, but otherwise it was like looking in a mirror. “I have to tell you, man, I didn’t think it would work.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You didn’t meet her.” I’d never brought Gina to meet Andrew—I’d never brought any woman, ever, to meet Andrew. I never even told women about him. When it came to Andrew, in my opinion you either earned it or you didn’t, and I’d never yet met the woman who’d earned it.

“No, but when you talked about her—which was almost never—it sounded like you didn’t even like her much.” He shrugged. “Maybe one of these days you should try meeting someone who is actually nice.”

I snorted. And now that word—nice—made me think about Evie Bates. Again. “The guy Gina screwed was cheating, too. I met his girlfriend. I felt bad for her, you know? I took her out for a sandwich.”

Andrew licked a drop of coffee from his lip and raised one eyebrow—a talent he had that I didn’t. “Uh huh,” he said.

“What?” I was instantly on the defensive. “What does uh huh mean?”

“You took the guy’s girlfriend out for a sandwich. Because that’s what you do, take strange women out for sandwiches.”

“I wanted to cheer her up.”

“Uh huh,” he said again. He was such an asshole. “You trying to sleep with her?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I took a woman out for a sandwich without trying to fuck her, Andrew. Not even a little.”

“So you’re going to try to fuck her next time, then.”

I shook my head. “Dude, she doesn’t even like me. There isn’t going to be a next time.”

He looked skeptical. “What does this girlfriend look like?”

I shrugged. “She’s a redhead. She looked like a redhead.” My brother was steepling his fingers together like a comic book villain and peering at me like he could read my mind, so I said, “Forget it, dickbag. She works in a bank. She’s too decent for me. I just felt bad because he fucked her over, that’s all.”

Andrew was obviously of my gene pool, because he said, “So go put dog shit on his porch or a laxative in his morning latte. Gina, too. They both deserve it. Then try to sleep with the redhead. That’s what I would do.”

“You’re a real role model, you know that?”

Andrew nodded solemnly. “I’ve taught you everything I know, little brother.”

“Mom and Dad would be so proud.”

We both laughed, because the idea of our parents being proud of either of us was ridiculous. Our parents had checked out after Andrew’s accident—it was, apparently, too much for them to handle. There were never two more useless people than John and Rita Mason. The only thing our parents were good for was money, and plenty of it. We’d come into our trust funds at twenty-one, and they’d thrown even more money at Andrew after his accident, because he made them uncomfortable. Me, they just hated.

So my brother had a scheduled caretaker, cleaners, groceries delivered, a home that was fitted for a wheelchair—everything except two parents who gave a shit.

“You need anything before I go?” I asked him.

He stopped laughing and scratched his nose. “The cleaning crew comes today, but the groceries don’t come until tomorrow, and I’m low on a few things.”

So I took care of it. This was what we did, Andrew and me. I helped him out with the stuff he couldn’t do, or couldn’t do easily. He hated it, and sometimes he argued with me, but in the end he always gave in, because he knew I’d do it anyway. He knew I wouldn’t quit.

Aside from taking care of Andrew, I wasn’t good for much. I’d dropped out of my first year of college after Andrew’s accident. I didn’t work, because I needed to help him, and who the hell wanted to work anyway? I sure as fuck hadn’t settled down. The first years after the accident had been so hard, and such a blur, that I’d kind of lost track of things. Now I was twenty-six, and instead of looking around and wondering what the hell I was going to do, I avoided the topic by doing what I’d been doing pretty much nonstop for five years: partying.

It wasn’t that I had a lot of friends. Friends are people who know you, who really give a shit about you. No, I didn’t have friends—but I had acquaintances. I was rich, I was good-looking, and I was always looking for a good time, so the good times tended to find me. I’d started by blowing off steam a few times after the accident and the end of my college career, and somehow I’d never stopped. It was a rare night that I didn’t get at least one invite. And I usually agreed.

It wasn’t the alcohol that drew me—I could take it or leave it. It wasn’t the women either, though I usually had one hanging around. No, it was the distraction that I was addicted to. Disappearing into a crowd, letting it take over, becoming someone else—or no one at all—for a few hours, until I fell into my bed with exhaustion—that was what I wanted.

By the time I finished getting Andrew’s groceries, I had two different party invites in my texts. I accepted both of them.

I wasn’t going to think about Gina, or redheads in overalls. At least for a little while.

I went home to grab some sleep before the long night began.