"How did I get roped into this again?" I call to my older brother Brendan, who's wandering around the menswear store like he's lost. "I already served my time when we went bridesmaid dress shopping earlier this week."

I'm mostly kidding. It's not that I mind helping Brendan. My real objection lays with the other party who has accompanied us on this excursion: the Best Man, Dean. He's still a little ticked about the fact that I may have kind of, sort of... accidentally backed into his car the other day.

It was like something out of a nightmare: I threw my car into reverse without looking closely, heard a sickening crunch, and then I saw red—literally. A red Porsche Cayenne belonging to none other than my mortal nemesis.

Dean is known for holding exceptionally long grudges, which means I'll be hearing about this for the next year, if not more. That's why I'm hiding behind the sales rack, avoiding the death stare coming from six solid feet of alpha male on the other side of the room.

"Vidya wanted your opinion on my suit. A woman's opinion, she said. She's got some weird superstition about not seeing it herself before the big day. And no, I don't understand it either. It's not a damn wedding dress." Brendan sighs and rakes a hand through his sandy blond hair. "Women."

"Women, indeed," Dean grumbles from where he's sitting, engrossed on his phone. Supposedly, writing work emails for one of his numerous side ventures, but I suspect he's looking at sports stats. Since being forced to retire from his pro hockey career, he's been even more intolerable than usual. As an 8-year veteran of the NHL, Dean's entire life gravitated around hockey, and Brendan says he's going stir crazy. Personally, I think it's just an excuse to dial up the surliness meter.

"Maybe she was afraid you'd end up looking like that." I nod in Dean's direction.

He looks up, cocking a dark eyebrow. "What, you mean impeccably groomed and devastatingly handsome?"

To be fair, he has a point. Dean always looks like he walked straight out of a GQ shoot. But I'm not admitting that.

"No," I say. "Like some corporate stiff in a generic suit." Oh, if only his suit were generic. The navy fabric is perfectly tailored to his tall, athletic frame in a way that makes you want to rip it right off his body. But it's Dean, so that's obviously not an option.

"Whatever, Lululemon. You're not exactly an arbiter of style."

I glance down at my mesh-paneled black leggings, oversized off-the-shoulder turquoise sweatshirt, and space-dyed running shoes. It's a perfectly appropriate ensemble for afternoon shopping. A little underdressed compared to Dean's bespoke navy suit and crisp white dress shirt, maybe, but he's always overdressed. And it's not so bad compared to Brendan's omnipresent uniform of khakis and knit V-neck sweater in a rotation of neutral—today, it's heathered gray.

Plus, it's not like I wore this outfit to the gym and then came straight here. I went home, showered, and put on clean athleisure wear, thank you very much.

"Who am I supposed to be trying to impress?" I snort, rolling my eyes. "You two nerds, or your ancient suit guy?" Dean's tailor is a kindly old dinosaur of a man named Vincent. He's also hard of hearing and well out of earshot.

Brendan gives us a reproachful look. It's shorthand for 'you're both being childish right now, and I'm staying out of it'. After countless rounds of Dean and I sparring over the years, my brother doesn't waste his breath uttering the words for the umpteenth time. With a dramatic sigh, he heads for the other side of the store, leaving us to duke it out while he busies himself examining dress shirts in various shades of white and ivory.

Dean shoots me a withering glance. "Some of us choose to dress well for ourselves, you know. It's called taking pride in your appearance."

He could afford to take a little less pride in himself, frankly. Even his perpetual stubble is always perfectly groomed. His dark brown scruff falls just short of a full-on beard and the effect is more appealing than I care to admit. Factor in his good bone structure and perfect teeth, which look like his parents probably spent a fortune on orthodontics in his youth, and Dean is intimidation personified.

It doesn't help that he oozes charisma and hardly anyone, male or female, ever says no to him. Basically, Dean gets whatever he wants—or whoever he wants—and his ego is sized accordingly.

"And some of us have better things to do than admire ourselves in reflective surfaces all day." I draw in a breath, fighting the urge to strangle him. It's a recurrent theme. Spending time with Dean is good exercise for my self-discipline because the alternative to controlling myself is jail.

"Maybe you should spend more time looking in reflective surfaces." He looks up from his phone and his emerald gaze ensnares mine, laser-like and searing. "Like rear view mirrors."

Panic shoots through me and I whirl around to verify Brendan's location. Thankfully, Vincent is sizing Brendan with a measuring tape off to the back, safely out of hearing range.

I turn back to face Dean and take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Did you tell Brendan about that?"

Dean has the upper hand with this one and we both know it. If the rear-ending incident gets back to Brendan—and by proxy, my mother—it will only add fuel to the familial 'Brooke is irresponsible' fire. Believe me, that fire needs no kindling. It is a continuously glowing ember, threatening to ignite at any moment.

"That his sister is a reckless driver? No, I didn't think he needed the additional stress of hearing that you're a hazard on the road."

"It wasn't reckless, it was a freak accident." I double-check Brendan's whereabouts, whispering for extra surety. "How was I supposed to know your car was there?"

His voice is a growl. "It was parked."

That is technically true, but I was rattled after seeing him unexpectedly. And of all the luck, backing into his car? Why couldn't it have been one of the girls from the front desk or some other gym member? Hell, even a random person?

I return my attention to the sales rack. Menswear is so uninspired compared to women's fashion. They don't even have any fun accessories, unless you count those boring leather belts by the register.

"I was in a hurry," I tell Dean, returning my attention to the sales rack stationed next to the dressing room. Hues of navy, black, and grey pass by in a monochrome blur as I flick through the discounted cashmere sweaters. "It was an honest mistake. I left a note, and I told you I'd pay for it."

"Yeah, you wrote me a note in purple eyeliner on a sushi receipt. And signed it with a smiley face." He scoffs. "At any rate, I don't want your money."

What the hell is his problem? Knowing Dean, this is an excuse for him to chastise me down the road for being 'flighty', as he likes to say. Personally, I prefer to think of myself as spontaneous and unburdened. Either way, I'm not letting him martyr his way into blaming me later.

"Fine." I glare at him. "We can go through insurance."

"Then your premiums will go up. We both know you can't afford that." He's right, they're high enough as it is. Make one illegal u-turn, get a few speeding tickets, and they will haunt you for years. Damn demerits stick around for an eternity.

"Come on." I make a pouty face that has gotten me out of countless situations—and gotten me into some, too. "You have to let me do something."

"Those puppy dog eyes won't work on me. You can save your money." Dean waves me off. "Use it for shopping. Though, for someone who shops so much, I can't understand why you seem to live in leggings."

Some people might say I have a slight shopping problem. Especially when it comes to gym clothes. I just can't help it, they keep coming out with improved fabrics, tie-back tanks, seasonal colours. How am I supposed to resist limited edition cranberry crush leggings? I'm only human.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll be dressed up tomorrow night. I'm sure that outfit will be up to your standards. Not that I care what you think."

Dean huffs a sound of derision, crossing an ankle over his knee, but doesn't respond.

"Come on, you two." Brendan returns with several white dress shirts draped over one arm, making a downward motion with his hands. "Let's get through this without any bloodshed, okay?"

He looks at us questioningly, and we both nod like petulant children being reprimanded by a teacher.

"Now, I've narrowed it down to four contenders. I'll try them on and you can both weigh in. I'll be the tiebreaker if there's a disagreement."

It's sweet that he's optimistic, but it's a given that there will be disagreement.

Brendan darts into the changing room, throwing worried glances over his shoulder like he wasn't completely kidding about the bloodshed comment.

There are only two chairs in the seating area so I flop down in the brown leather armchair beside Dean's, crossing my legs and angling myself away from him. Notes of vetiver and bergamot from his cologne waft over, invading my airspace.

I draw in a slow breath, covertly savouring the scent. Dean always smells irresistible. It's an underhanded combat tactic: olfactory warfare. Things would be so much easier if he smelled like an old shoe.

Dean picks up his phone again, giving off vibes so hostile that they might as well be radioactive. I do the same with my phone, making a point to ignore him.

Opening up social media, I scroll down to my latest post, which is a selfie of me holding a bag of faux cheez puffs, sponsored by VeganSnax. Given that I had a bacon-and-egg sandwich from the drive-through for breakfast this morning, it's not exactly on-brand, but it paid last month's cellphone bill so I can't complain.

The post has hit 19,932 likes since last night. Respectable engagement, but the comments leave much to be desired.

Comments

Pink_bunnie: Is it true u plagarized from Francine Smith????

Thisisme43: @Maria23353 Brooke is a total thirst trap. Pathetic.

Glamsquad: I can't believe you did that to Jade. You're a terrible person. I'm boycotting brands that work with you.

Ax2xz1a: Why are you advertising vegan products? You posted yourself eating a cheeseburger last week.

Iwantbeerzlol: you're too hot to be single. what's wrong with you? are you one of those crazy hot chicks?

With a sigh, I lean back in the soft leather seat. My life imploded a few months ago when my friend-slash-business-partner Jade plagiarized content for our blog—and threw me under the bus when she got caught. It went down late one night when I was already asleep, which meant I woke up to a social media shitstorm the next morning. In short: I got 'canceled'. There's even an Internet meme about me. I won't rehash the ugly details.

Needless to say, saving my career has been an uphill battle. I've clarified the issue a million times. At this point, people either believe me or they don't. Same with calling me a 'thirst trap'. I'm an influencer, what do you expect? This is how I make my living.

At this point, the vast majority of negative comments roll right off my back. My skin is thicker than an alligator hide. Despite this, I'm strongly tempted to respond to 'Iwantbeerzlol' outlining, in great detail and with specific examples, my disappointment with the male gender as a whole and the multiple reasons why I don't have—or want—a boyfriend. What's wrong with me? Let's talk about what's wrong with men, bro. Starting with the one sitting next to me.

As if on cue, Dean breaks the silence. "Is your boyfriend coming to the wedding?" He doesn't glance up from his screen, continuing to tap at the screen with his brow slightly furrowed. "Trevor?"

I dated my ex Travis for a year. He met my family, came to my grandfather's funeral, and he even met Dean once or twice. But I ended things a few months ago after his effort level flat lined. His idea of foreplay had dwindled into thinly-veiled requests for blowjobs—without any reciprocation. Which was really illustrative of our dynamic as a whole. Our relationship had been circling the drain for a while; I just pulled the plug.

Travis was a net loss by the end, so I'm not too broken up about it. But I am annoyed Dean is trying to use it to needle me.

"Travis." I fight to keep my voice level, trying to conceal my irritation. I don't want Dean to know he's getting to me. "And don't play dumb. You know I broke up with him months ago." I've since sworn off dating as well, but I don't dare let that information slip. It would just be fresh ammo for Dean to use against me in our weird little games.

Dean freezes, eyes still glued to his screen, and the furrow in his brow deepens. "No. Brendan didn't mention that." His expression neutralizes and he resumes typing at lightning speed. "That guy was a loser anyway. I always thought so."

"Some might say the same about you."

In my peripheral vision, his square jaw tics and he sets down his phone before shifting to face me. His dark green eyes bore into mine, unblinking. It's unsettling, like he can see into my brain, which is a scary proposition. He probably wins a lot of staring contests with that glare, but he won't win with me. I jut my chin defiantly and return his glower. A fresh wave of his cologne floats in my direction and my stomach does a pirouette, but I refuse to blink.

"I'm many things." His voice is a murmur so that Brendan can't hear. "Loser isn't one of them. In fact, I get rave reviews. Feel free to find out for yourself, if you ever decide to upgrade to real men."

My face grows warm as the most peculiar combination of lust and hatred floods my body. It's a physiological response that only Dean provokes. I often wonder whether I arouse the same feelings in him.

"If I get that desperate," I say through clenched teeth, still holding his gaze, "you'll be the first to know."

Before Dean can throw another verbal punch, the door to Brendan's dressing room door swings open. We scramble to reposition ourselves on the chairs, maximizing the distance between our bodies. Fortunately, Brendan seems oblivious to the battle he just interrupted.

"What do you guys think of this one?" He does a slow 360 degree turn to show us all angles. Obviously, good looks run in the family, but in the case of Suit #1, I'm underwhelmed. The material is fine, but something about the fit isn't quite right. The buttons in the front seem off, or maybe the shoulders are too wide. At any rate, Vincent can do better.

"It's okay." I shrug, trying to be diplomatic for Brendan's sake. "Let's see the rest."

Dean nods and gives him a thumbs up. "I like it."

Of course he does. Because I don't. Contrarian bastard.

It's the same story for Suits #2-4. All are at least passable, but Dean and I can't agree on which is best, and Brendan looks like he's sprouting grey hairs on the spot trying to mediate. He changes back into his clothes and walks back out to where we're sitting.

Brendan leans against a wooden pillar off to the side and juts his chin at me. "Okay, we'll rank them. Brooke?"

"I like three, two, four, one. In that order."

Brendan nods. "Dean?"

"One, four, two, three. In that order." Dean inclines his head in my direction, where I've wandered back over to the sweater rack. They're soft and cuddly, at least, which is better than cold, prickly Dean. "And if we're calculating a weighted average, it warrants mentioning that I actually wear suits, unlike Lululemon over there."

Brendan shoots him a withering look. "Real mature." He turns back to look at the four suits hanging on the rack, each similar but slightly different. "Okay, can we eliminate one, at least? Narrow it down a bit?"

"One," I say over my shoulder.

"Four," Dean says at the same time.

My brother turns back to face us, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut. "Do I have to fire you both?"

I fix him with an innocent, wide-eyed little sister look. "I'm not the issue, I'm very well-liked. I can get along with anybody."

Dean harrumphs something between a snort and laughter. "Sure."

"Fine," Brendan says. "We'll remove the outliers. Options 1 and 4 are off the table. That leaves 2 and 3."

Tilting my head, I study him thoughtfully. "Can you try them on again? We should have taken some pictures to see how they look in photos." My phone chimes and a reminder to meet Charity pops up. This has taken a lot longer than I expected, and we're supposed to meet to take some photos for my blog post tomorrow. "Oh shoot. I've gotta run, Bren. I'm sure whichever you pick will be great. They're both solid options."

"You're still coming tomorrow, right?" Brendan asks. He's hosting New Year's Eve this year with his fiancée, Vidya. They recently closed on an adorable little yellow two-storey near cafes, restaurants and good schools. Perfectly on track to have the American dream, complete with 2.5 kids, white picket fence, regular family vacations, and fat 401k.

Me and my tire fire of a life... not so much.

"You bet," I tell him, pushing to stand. "I'm bringing Charity and Peyton. We might head over to Tim's party later on, though."

His place is closer to mine than Brendan's is, which means I don't need to worry about fighting for an Uber at peak hours. Plus, I may want to escape Dean's constant side-eye eventually.

Brendan points at the two of us. "And no petty squabbling on New Year's, right?"

Dean's gazes locks with mine and a little jolt runs through my body, but his expression stays impassive.

"Right," we both confirm.

This has been sitting offline for wayyyyy too long.