I smooth my tongue over my teeth just for good measure before I say, “I hate you so much.”

He grins the most annoying grin ever presented to another human. “Not as much as I hate you.”

And that in a nutshell sums up my relationship with Brody McFadden.

The bane of my existence.

My current nightmare.

And my brother’s best friend.

I would like to say it wasn’t always like this, the disgust between us, but honestly, I don’t know. My brother, who is seven years older than me, met Brody in college. They were in a fraternity together.

Sigma Phi Delta! Let’s go! ← said in annoying bro voice.

Yeah, I’m gagging too.

I met Brody when they graduated, and he’d simply been “my brother’s best friend.” Nothing more.

My brother, Gary, was best known in his bro-hood college days for jumping off the frat house roof and into the pool, breaking his leg in three places. A vastly unintelligent move, but hey, he got high fives from everyone, so clearly a winning decision.

And then there’s Brody. He’s best known for making out with two hundred and thirty-two women throughout his college career. He kept count. I know this because he’s told me…twice. Can we say…douche?

The pair of idiot bro-hards formed a bond over the Chicago Rebels, a baseball team they love so much that to this day they will cry like itty-bitty babies if their cherished team loses in the playoffs.

I’ve seen it.

It’s unflattering and uncomfortable to witness.

Gary’s face will turn a dangerous shade of red while Brody will sniffle over and over…and over. Just blow your nose! We all know you’re crying.

And of course, because they’re not responsible in the slightest, instead of applying for jobs right out of college, they spent the summer visiting every ballpark in America and putting together a detailed list of which one serves the best hot dog. They created a website for the entire endeavor and last I checked, they’ve only had a little over one thousand visitors, so…time well spent. Really went viral with that idea.

So, why do I hate him?

Great question.

Because the night Gary and his now wife, Patricia—bless her soul for putting up with my brother—got married, I became woman two hundred and thirty-three. Ehhh…well, probably more than that, but you get the idea.

I fell victim to a Brody McFadden make out session.

And it wasn’t just some kissing.

Ohhhh no, there was groping.

Huffing.

Grunting.

Smacking lips.

He felt my boob.

I touched his erection.

Cupped it, actually.

Sometimes I can still feel him in the palm of my hand. There was girth, damn it.