My Life gets worse.

The next day, the air in the apartment was too thin. I found Sarah at the kitchen table, dressed for work, hair tied back, makeup perfect, as if she wanted to erase completely the memory of last night’s look, with today’s professional one. She was staring at her phone, scrolling without seeing. When Wiley came out of the spare room, with his face completely bale, the type of bale you get from masturbating all night, he barely made eye contact, grabbing a bowl of cereal and retreating into the background like a ghost.

That night Sarah insisted on another game that night. Wiley said no, I said hell no, but she gave us both a look that could have launched a thousand ships, and we caved. “I only get to see Wiley so often, so I won’t take no for an answer,” she said, her tone as relentless as gravity. “And if Liam ruins the game again, I will stand in front of Wiley butt naked until his phone is full of photos of me.”

This time, the games went smoothly, four rounds of war, nobody raising their voice, nobody making a scene. I even managed to win one, and for the first time in days, I slept in the same bed as Sarah. We didn’t touch, barely spoke, but I could sense a thaw, an almost-willingness to mend. I told myself that after Wiley left, things would go back to normal, that the old rhythm would return.

The next morning, (Thursday) the apartment felt a little bit more alive. Sarah made coffee, even joked about how we were all going to need liver transplants before thirty. Wiley shuffled in, hollow-eyed but otherwise functional, and the three of us fell into a weird, almost pleasant rhythm—roommates rather than combatants. As the hours ticked by, it became easy to believe that all of last night’s ugliness had gotten washed away, or at least diluted.

That afternoon, I left work in a mood so light I wanted to chase pigeons in the parking lot. As I pushed open the building’s front doors, I saw a bright red flyer stapled to the glass: “ATTENTION: Henderson Inc. has acquired this facility, effective immediately.” The words caught in my throat, then started to multiply, each one a fresh, hot insult. Henderson. It could only mean one thing.As in Wiley Henderson.

I felt the blood drain from my face, my hands going cold. This was supposed to be my inheritance, my birthright. I’d been raised on the idea—no, the certainty—that one day I’d be running this place. That was the whole point of everything, the reason I’d never really tried, the reason I’d gotten away with being average. Now, all of that was gone. Because of Wiley. Because he had quietly, efficiently, outmaneuvered me again.

I drove home on autopilot, hands locked on the wheel, headlights blurring into a single, angry smear. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw Wiley standing outside, hunched against the wind, hands jammed into the pockets of his oversized coat. I was out of the car before I realized it, striding up the walk like a man with nothing left to lose.

He must have seen the look in my eyes because he started backing up, hands raised. “Oh hey, Liam. Sarah’s not back yet, so I was just—”

I grabbed him by the collar, twisting the greasy fabric in my fist, and shoved him against the brick. “You didn’t tell me you were here to ruin my fucking life!”

Wiley’s mouth gaped open, a fish on dry land. “What are you talking about?”

I could barely hear myself. “You bought my dad’s company. You bought MY future.”

Wiley shook his head, blinking fast. “I didn’t know you worked there, man. I swear. And it’s not like I’m going to fire you— my best friend’s boyfriend.”

It was then that Sarah’s car pulled in, tires screaming against the curb. She launched out, running toward us before I could even process her arrival.

“LIAM, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” she screamed, hair flying, eyes raw with panic.

I screamed back, “This gross pig bought my dad’s company.”

Sarah knew what it meant, what it meant for my future. I wasn’t a bad worker, but I have been living off the fact that I was the Defacto future CEO. A fact that was no longer plausible since Willey now owned it. Sarah reaches up and gently touches my arm “I know, but you have to put him down now.”

Sarah’s left hand gripped my wrist soft but firm. She’d always been best at calming me down, even when I didn’t want her to. That perfect cocktail of school-teacher patience and stubbornness: it was the reason I was still with her, even if, at times like this, it tasted a little like defeat. I let go of Wiley, but my hand hovered in the air for a split second, fingers trembling. Sarah gently pressed my shoulder—no longer a suggestion, but a command—and told me to go inside.

The door closed behind me with the muffled thunk of a coffin lid. For a moment, I stood in the silent hallway, the distant hum of the fridge and the rattle of pipes in the wall barely enough to mask my own pulse. I drifted to the window, not wanting to see, not wanting to hear, but unable to stop myself.

Wiley’s voice was high, nasal, more cartoon than human. “Sara-bear. I don’t know what you see in that stupid brute. I have half a mind to have him fired right now.”

Sarah’s answer was a whimper, a sound I’d never heard from her before. “Please don’t do that.”

Wiley groaned theatrically, milking the moment for all it was worth. “Fine, I won’t. But only because you asked. Certainly not because of him. I hear he’s worthless at work. Living off the family name and doing a grade-A impersonation of a paperweight.”

I couldn’t see Sarah’s face, but I heard her next words, small and earnest: “Hey, look at your neck, it’s so bruised.”

Wiley gave a world-weary sigh, like a sitcom dad at the end of a long episode. “Yeah, that’s what happens when a stupid brute can’t control his anger.”

Sarah voice sounds soft and caring “I’m really sorry. I’m gonna have to make it up to you.”

Wiley’s laugh was a soft, throaty cackle. “If that’s the case, I’ll take that phone full of images of you that you offered last night. That should even the score.”

A sharp flame of rage shot through my chest, so hot and sudden I nearly bit through my own tongue. I almost launched myself back outside, but then Sarah’s voice rose above the fray: “Wiley!”

Wiley laughed again, softer this time, teasing it out. “I know…I know. I’m just joking. Unless you weren’t joking last night.”

He always knew just how to needle me, even when I wasn’t in the room. I pressed my face against the window, the glass cold enough to leave a numbing imprint on my forehead.

Sarah’s answer was a tentative push, a sound like wet leaves being brushed off a tombstone. “Yes, I was.”

Wiley’s silhouette bent forward, spinal curve deepening in the porch light. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he said. “But I’ll admit, you got me pretty good.”

There was a pause after the final sharp laugh. Sarah stood stock-still on the porch, like she’d been frozen in place by the cold wind or by some mortal shame. She waited until Wiley gave her a freeing shrug before coming inside, her own pace slow and deliberate, every motion rehearsed for the audience in her head. When the door clicked shut behind her, I half-expected her to ignore me, to march straight back to the bedroom and lock herself away like last time. Instead, she headed directly for me, her face set in an expression that managed to be both apologetic and furious.

She didn’t mince words. “You better start figuring out how to control your anger, because now I have to find out how to make it up to him.”

I snapped back, barely containing the bitterness. “I heard what he asked for.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and gave a short, brittle giggle, as if reminding herself the whole thing was ridiculous. “I know he was just joking.”

“He wasn’t joking,” I said. I made sure there was nothing in my voice but certainty; I had known Wiley long enough to understand that every ugly little joke of his contained, like a pill in a dog treat, some bitter medicine he wanted to see swallowed.

Sarah stood up straighter, her eyes daring me to call her bluff. “If you're so sure, let's go to the bathroom and start taking pictures, your we can pay him back for your anger.” she hissed, voice flat as an eviction notice. Without even waiting for me to react, she glided past, her hand skimming the countertop as if steadying herself for what was coming next. The echo of her heels on the hallway laminate was the sound of a train gaining speed and ignoring all signals.

I stood there, air trapped in my lungs, my hand locked on the back of the kitchen chair like a man holding tight to a raft just before the waterfall. The apartment’s color seemed to leach away, replaced by the sick yellow of a hospital waiting room. I focused on the path Sarah had taken, the slight groove in the fake wood near the bedroom, the way a faint strand of her hair had caught on the deadbolt, a single blonde filament performing a lonely ballet of its own. Out the window, the world was drained of its warmth, a pale blue dusk settling on the winter grass. And there was Wiley, pacing on the sidewalk, a living exclamation point to my humiliation.

He circled the driveway like a dog denied entry, his movements oddly loose, almost celebratory. At one point, he pulled out his phone—the most expensive one some one could buy that looked pristine except for some anime sticker half-ripped off—and thumbed at the screen in slow, deliberate arcs. I imagined his texts: “You won’t believe what I got away with tonight,” or worse, “Turns out, some people really don’t change.” I could see his expression even at this distance: the sneer schooled into nonchalance, the eyes practically singing. I hated that I knew him so intimately, could predict his every muscle twitch, every tick of his inferiority complex masquerading as pride.

Inside, nothing moved. Sarah’s presence vanished into the back of the apartment, leaving only the faintest vibration in the walls. I thought about following her, making amends, but the heaviness in my legs and the sharp taste of shame in my mouth anchored me to the spot. This time, I had no idea what I’d find if I opened the bedroom door. For all I knew, she’d be in there, stripping her clothes off one piece at a time, photographing herself in the mirror as a final, scorched-earth answer to my inability to control myself. For all I knew, she might actually send the pictures.

I pressed my palm against the cold window, watching the fog of my breath grow and fade. Wiley was still out there, now standing stark under the flickering porch light, his head craned to the side, tongue working at the inside of his cheek like he was savoring some secret. The corridor behind me felt infinitely long, and the urge to disappear, to teleport out of this moment and into some better, earlier version of my life, was so strong I nearly laughed.

The TV was still on, volume so low that the voices blurred into a single, murky drone. I let myself flop onto the couch, powerless against the gravitational pull of defeat. How had Sarah put it? “Relentless as gravity.” If she saw me now, she’d probably quote herself just to twist the knife.

Somewhere down the hall, the sound of the bathroom door slamming reached me. I winced, picturing her in there, lit by the unflattering vanity bulbs, body coiled tight with frustration and resolve. Maybe she was crying. Maybe she was taking the pictures with a weirdly professional detachment, angles and filters and all. Maybe she was doing both, and there was nothing I could do to stop her, nothing I could do to make any of this not my fault.

It was Wiley’s turn to return. I heard the porch step creak and the subtle metallic squeal of the front door as he eased it open, as if trying not to wake a sleeping parent. He stepped inside, eyes darting first to the hallway, then to me. For the first time ever, he didn’t say anything. No gloating, no snide remarks, just a strangely careful shuffle into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of tap water with the seriousness of a man prepping for surgery. I watched the way he gripped the cup, knuckles whitening, and for a fleeting second, I wondered if this whole thing was as fun for him as he pretended it was.

He left the glass on the counter, trailing condensation, and vanished into the guest room. Once the door clicked shut, I could hear the muffled bleating of his phone, a steady pulse of notifications. I imagined him scrolling through apps, maybe even waiting for Sarah’s promised photos, almost positive he wouldn’t let the moment go without some proof, some artifact of victory.

I waited. The TV’s glow deepened the shadows in the living room, but nothing else changed. Sarah stayed hidden for nearly an hour. I made sure to listen closely, but much to my pleasure I never head the faint click of a phone camera.

When she finally emerged, the first thing I noticed was her hair—it had been combed out carefully, every strand in place, the kind of effort she only made for interviews or funerals. Her makeup was gone, wiped clean, but her skin was red from scrubbing, especially around the eyes. She didn’t look at me when she crossed to the kitchen. She made tea with clinical precision, measuring the water, timing the steep, tapping the spoon twice against the rim of the mug before setting it down. I watched her fingers, the little tremors still there in the delicate bonework beneath the skin.

Sarah finished her tea, rinsed the mug, and put it away with a soldier’s economy. She crossed the living room on her way to the bedroom, but this time her eyes met mine, and what I saw there was not anger, not even contempt—it was a kind of tired disbelief, a question so old and so patient it didn’t even need to be said aloud: "How did we get here?"

After she vanished into the bedroom and locked the door behind her letting me know I wasn’t welcome in there tonight, the only sign she’d been in the room at all was the faint citrus trace of her shampoo and the lingering heat where her hand had pressed the countertop. I stared at the closed door for a long time.