Page 53 of It Happened Again

Finally, the door creaked open.

Archer blinked at me, bleary-eyed, his hair an absolute disaster, wearing nothing but pajama pants and a t-shirt that saidHire someone else to design your kitchen.

“Jesus, Brooks,” he rasped, scratching his head. “You look like you got thrown from a train because your the very definition of heartbreak and poor decision-making.”

“Must. Have. Tequila.”

"Let me guess. Maisy did this to you?"

I nodded, inhaling shakily through my nose, trying not to cry.

He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Come on in. Let’s drink our feelings through this heartbreak like the Bellamy men we are.”

He flipped on a single lamp in the living room and shuffled to the bar cart, pulling out a bottle of Don Julio 1942 and two short tumblers. I collapsed onto the couch like my body had given up supporting my my sad sack of bones and muscles.

Archer poured without asking how much I wanted, slid a glass to me, and sank onto the couch across from mine.

“So,” he said, swirling the liquid. “What happened? Did Maisy kick you out after finding your secret collection of 1970 soft rock records?”

I gave him a look.

“Too soon?”

“Way too soon.”

“Okay, my bad. Less sarcasm. Got it.”

I took a long sip, reveling in the sweet burn going down. I stared into the glass like a magic eight ball.

Me: I let her go like she asked. Will she really come back to me?

8Ball: Fuck no. Are you crazy?

“She told me to leave her alone," I said.

“Maisy? Science goddess? That Maisy?”

I nodded slowly.

“Shit.”

“She’s killing herself for this Orion Symposium. I brought her dinner, tried to convince her to go home and rest for the night. But she was all fired up on caffeine, ready to fight unfairly and rehash old wounds. Said I didn’t understand her needs right now and told me to leave her alone.”

Archer winced. “Ouch.”

“I tried to help. I did everything I could think of. The scents, the hoodie, the stargazing. Hell, I read every research study shewrote, and also listened to her talk on and on about cortisol levels. I understood every word she said.”

“You hate cortisol.”

“Not anymore. See, it turns out you just have to know the key to getting around cortisol.”

"Which is?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, my super twin, my captive audience. Always there for me. Such a great guy.

"Stress management," I announced like a great prophecy.

“Right," he draw out that one word. "How much did you have to drink before pounding on my door at two in the morning?"

"I can't remember. More please."

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