Broken Carts ✔️

Aisle 27: Siblings

As far as siblings go, Jude and I would be classified as being "on good terms." This meant we weren't the type of brothers who hurled insults or beat each other up for hogging the Xbox. We bonded over TV shows or video games, but we were never close enough to tell each other anything important. Or anything at all.

So it was uncomfortable, to say the least, when my parents told Jude about my car accident. A couple days after they put on that scarring display of trashing my drug-and-sex paraphernalia, Jude gave me a call. It was so rare that I was sure it was a butt dial; unfortunately, it was pre-meditated.

"Well," said Jude after a five minute, too-detailed comparison of New York's weather to Florida's. "Mom and Dad told me about what happened."

"With what?" I asked, hoping he'd feel too embarrassed to press on.

"With the, well, accident." He paused for a long time. I checked my phone to see if the call disconnected. "You gotta be careful, bro. I know it's exciting to be out on your own— trust me, I've been there— but... uh... everything in moderation."

"I know."

"You do? You already know?" He coughed a little. "I knew you knew, obviously. You're a good kid— sorry, young adult."

"Yeah."

"Mom and Dad will always worry, though."

"Yeah."

"You'll be back to school in no time. Hey, if you behave, maybe I'll even sell you my old car. How's that sound?"

"Yeah. I mean, good." We hung up shortly after and didn't talk again for almost a month.

•

When I woke up with one foot off the bed, shirt around my neck, and Ezra snoozing beside me, I legitimately didn't remember Jude had made an appearance the night before. I was more concerned with the fact that I had somehow woken up without a hangover, until I started giggling to myself, at which point I realized I was still drunk and a killer hangover was waiting around the corner for the perfect moment to drag me to the depths of hell.

After staring at the ceiling and trying to fill in the holes in my spotty memory, a knock on the door signaled Skeeter's arrival. Bud was, unfortunately, lurking behind him in the hallway, hands folded in front of him like he was making a concentrated effort to be the good ol' boy he'd never been. I sat up straight in bed and distanced myself from Ezra's body.

"Bud wants to apologize to you," Skeeter stated in a rehearsed manner.

On cue, Bud shuffled into the room, sporting a bruise on his jaw that may as well have come with a sign saying I GOT PUNCHED LAST NIGHT. I suppressed a devious smirk, secretly wishing Ezra wasn't snoring away so he could witness this incredible testimony to my badassery.

"I'm sorry for being an asshole." Every word out of Bud's mouth seemed to have the effect of tiny needles being pushed into his neck. "I was really drunk."

I waited in anticipation of more from Bud, but he curled his lips into his teeth, and I realized that was as good of an apology as I was going to get. "It's alright," I said. "Sorry for punching you."

"Nothing I couldn't handle," he claimed.

We shared a bro-handshake to signify we'll never speak of this again and he left to pack up the car. Skeeter, however, lingered.

"Do you see what I mean about things being different since you left?" he asked, gesturing toward the bedroom door. "Bud's like that all the time now, swear to fucking God."

"What? Douching it up?"

"Yeah, and it's making everyone in the house tense twenty-four seven." Skeeter sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. Like, don't get me wrong, I love the guys, but shit, last night convinced me to move out next semester. He was a fucking dick."