I scream at my brother at the top of my lungs. More pounding ensues from the apartment next door, but I really don’t give a shit if the entire building crumbles because of my outburst. I scan the area for something solid to throw and spot a beer bottle off in the corner. “Baya, no,” he shouts as I wield it like a machete. “Well, I say, yes, for once.” He steps toward the television, and I hurl it, missing his face and hitting the screen instead. A large spider web of a crack stares back at me in its place, and I’m damned impressed. “You fucking broke it.” He straightens, pulling himself out of the moment. “Baya, come here.” His voice softens. He’s back to being his sweet self, and, to be honest, not a single part of me wants to be mad at this version of my brother. “Baya, I care about you. Trust me, the last person you want to be with is Bryson Edwards. The guy’s a slime.” “No, he’s not.” I pull my hands over my hips. “Take it back. I really care about him, Cole.
