What's Broken Between Us by Alexis Bass Page A

not dripping in sweat,” Wren says.
    I picture the old Jonathan smirking, brooding at her, covering my eyes to shield me from anything that would make me say, “Ew.”
    Wren stares expectantly, like that’s what she’s picturing, too. But now that we’re here, Jonathan barely seems happy to see her.
    “How’s your tea?” she asks, stripping off her apron and the black long-sleeved T-shirt she’d been wearing to reveal a black low-cut tank top and arms colored with tattoos. It’s a useless question, since our tea is still too hot to drink and is sitting in front of us, untouched.
    After a few seconds, Jonathan mumbles, “Not strong enough.”
    Wren stands up, then disappears behind the counter.
    Jonathan tries to take a sip of his tea. The way his face puckers tells me it’s still too hot to be drinking.
    Wren comes back holding a beat-up black purse. She reaches inside and tosses Jonathan something shiny. A flask. “Jack Daniel’s. Your favorite.”
    He shrugs. “What the hell,” he says, unscrewing the top.
    “Jonathan . . .” I try not to sound like a nagging mother. I fail. I want to scold them both, since this seems to be an obvious exchange: my brother’s attention for alcohol. But it occurs to me that anyone could know his favorite alcohol type if they search his name. Articles like to point out that Jonathan, at justeighteen, already had a preference in alcohol type. However she’s learned it, it does not sit well with me.
    He pours the whiskey until his cup is so full he’s going to have to slurp his first few sips without moving the cup.
    “It’s fine,” he says to me. “I’ve already turned in my urine this week.” His visits will be weekly for the first month or so. This still seems really risky to me.
    “My cousin hates his probation officer,” Wren says. “He’s so demanding.” She gets an almost smile out of Jonathan.
    “What does yours want you to do?” she asks.
    Jonathan tries for another sip of his tea and is more successful this time. “For me to be a model citizen. Develop a routine. Get a job. Go to AA meetings.”
    I wait for signs that red flags are popping up in Wren’s head. But her smile is as big as ever now.
    “AA?” She shakes her head. “Well, if you’re an alcoholic, you’re definitely a functioning one.”
    The way she says the word functioning makes me look away.
    When I picture an alcoholic, my brother—now or before—is not what I see. An alcoholic is someone who has beer with breakfast and is drunk by dinner. My brother drank in excess because his life was a party. And now? What’s a little Jack Daniel’s while complaining about your probation officer? Or a few sips of whiskey to take the edge off when you’re alone in your room with enough grief and guilt to sustain a lifetime of misery?
    “Don’t forget he wants you to speak to the community,” I chime in—anything to break up their game of eye lust.
    “You should definitely get on board with that,” Wren says.
    “Why?” I say, surprised she agrees, since she was so opposed to everything else.
    At the same time, Jonathan says, “Oh, I don’t know.”
    “For the haters,” she says.
    The who?
    “To show them how great you’re doing and stuff. You’re the only person who’s honest about all this shit. Maybe you could get bigger gigs—gigs that would actually pay you . ”
    “Who says I’m doing great?” Jonathan says. He quickly follows it up with, “It’d certainly be an improvement to have a payday.”
    “Gary wants you to have a payday too. From a real job,” I say. There’s annoyance in my voice. This is the kind of payday Wren should be encouraging. Right? If you’re interested in someone, as Wren is so clearly interested in my brother, you don’t want him going back to jail. You don’t bring him alcohol that’s in direct violation of his probation. You don’t encourage him to turn his community service into a paid gig.
    “You’re doing fucking amazing,” Wren