After You

It’s not that I hate being his best friend.

It’s just…I’m always the second choice. The guy he calls when his plans with someone else fall through. The one holding the camera, not the one in the picture. The seat-filler until the person he really wants shows up.

And the messed-up part? I keep saying yes. Every. Single. Time. Because maybe—just maybe—being second is better than not being chosen at all.

“Sorry, man. Jake said he can hang tonight. Rain check?”

I stare at the phone screen, the three dots flashing like they’re mocking me.

Another canceled plan. Another night alone. And I know how this works: I’m the backup. Always.

I toss the phone on my bed and laugh bitterly. Yeah, real funny. Always good enough to wait for him—but never good enough to come first.

I used to joke about it. Being the sidekick. The Robin to his Batman. The number two pencil. The “other guy.”

But the older we get, the less funny it feels.

Because second best isn’t just a joke anymore—it’s who I am. And if I don’t figure out how to stop being everyone’s backup plan, I’m scared that’s all I’ll ever be.

—

I walk the halls alone, my sneakers squeaking against the tiles like they’re announcing just how pathetic I am. Nobody talks to me unless Andrew’s around. Nobody even glances my way unless I’m glued to his side.

I’m reaching for the bathroom door when I hear it—Andrew’s laugh, easy, carrying down the hallway. Then Jake’s voice cuts in.

“Why do you let that loser tail you all the time?”

My stomach drops.

Andrew chuckles, like he doesn’t take it seriously. “What are you talking about?”

Jake snorts. “Freaking Oliver. He follows you around like a stray mutt.

The pause that follows is the longest two seconds of my life.

“Stop that,” Andrew finally says, his tone light but uncertain. “Oliver’s…cool? Just leave him be.”

Cool. With a question mark. Like, even he’s not sure.

I walk away quickly before they can see me. I walk, almost run, to the other side of the school to use a different bathroom.

Once inside, I run into the handicap stall and slam the door shut. I back up until my back hits the wall and sink to the floor. I press my fists into my eyes until colors burst behind them.

I’m so sick of this. Of being the shadow, the spare, the joke. Without me, Andrew wouldn’t even have half the things he does. I give him a ride whenever he asks, wherever he wants to go. I always give him money when he forgets his wallet. I let him copy my homework and test answers.

I stare at the graffiti scratched into the stall door, words blurring together. A thought worms its way into my brain—ugly, electric, impossible to ignore.

What if Andrew didn’t have a choice?

What if I made him see?

The idea sparks, wild and terrifying, but it won’t leave. My pulse pounds louder with every second. If Andrew were with me, he’d finally understand I’m not second best. I’d be all he had. And he’d have no choice but to see I’ve been the one all along.

If I want Andrew to see me, I have to strip away the noise. Jake. The team. The girls who flirt with him. His parents. All of them. Gone. Just me and him.

It’s so obvious I almost laugh.

My mind starts racing, rearranging pieces like a puzzle I didn’t know I’d been building all year. Andrew trusts me. He always gets in my car without a second thought, always hands me his phone when it dies, always leans on me when he’s too drunk. That’s the first step: his trust.

I slip from the stall and head straight for the sink, gripping the edge of the sink with my knuckles aching as I stare at my reflection. My face looks different somehow—eyes too wide, grin too sharp. But it fits. Because this time, I’m not just the sidekick.

This time, Andrew will finally understand I’m the only one who’s ever been there for him.

And once he’s mine, he’ll never forget it.

—

I need a plan.

I sit on my bed, trying to come up with a plan. The first thing I need is a place to take Andrew, but then it hits me—my house. Of course. No one ever comes by. My parents are always gone, flying to whatever country needs their attention more than me. The house is enormous, with many unused rooms. I could lock Andrew away for days, and nobody would hear a thing. The soundproof basement, the one my father once bragged about for wine storage, suddenly seems like it was built for this.

Andrew never says no to a party invite as long as there’s free booze. With my parents gone, it's the perfect excuse. Just a “chill night,” just us. Maybe a movie. A few drinks. Andrew would come without question.

But how do I capture him? What if Andrew is sitting on the couch, laughing at some dumb joke, and then—wham. A strike from behind. Maybe the fireplace poker or the heavy crystal decanter Mom never touches. When he crumples, I could drag him downstairs.

And restraints are easy. My parents keep expensive sailing gear in the garage, including thick ropes and ties meant for yachts, which they won’t miss. I already tested them on his own wrists, pulling until my skin burned. They hold tight. Perfect.

I’m finally the one in control.

—

Friday night.

I pace the living room, waiting. My palms feel sweaty, so I wipe them on my jeans.

The clock ticks past seven. Andrew always runs late. That’s fine. That’s Andrew. Always worth waiting for.

At 7:19, I hear my doorbell camera chime. I grab the decanter—I want it to look natural, like I’m just pouring a drink.

Andrew helps himself in. “Yo, your parents really left you the whole mansion to yourself? Lucky bastard.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess. Thought we’d chill.”

Andrew drops onto the leather couch like he owns it, scrolling his phone, laughing at something someone texted.

My teeth grind, but I force myself to pour the second glass of whiskey.

“Nice,” Andrew says, taking the glass. “Man, this place is insane. You’re seriously living the dream.”

My ears are ringing. My mind is screaming. Not the dream. Alone. Always alone. Except when you’re here.

Andrew raises the glass to his lips.

Now is my chance.

The poker is in my hand before I can even think about it. I step forward, fast, heart jackhammering.

“Oliver?” Andrew glances up, brow furrowed. “What are you—”

The blow lands. A dull, sickening thud. Andrew gasps, glass shattering across the rug. His body twists, collapses sideways.

For a second, I just stand there, breathless. My ears are filled with static, my arms shaking.

Then—relief.

It worked.

Andrew groans, dazed but alive, trying to push himself up.

I drop the poke and grab the rope from behind the couch. I shove Andre onto his stomach.

“Oliver—what the hell—”

“Shh.” I knot the ropes tight, too tight, pulling until Andrew’s wrists are raw.

Andrew thrashes, but I’m stronger than I thought I was. I haul him up with a grunt, dragging him toward the basement door. The house swallows Andrew’s muffled protests, leaving only my ragged breathing and the steady creak of the steps as they descend into darkness.

—

I drop Andrew against the chair I set up earlier.

Andrew groans, blood matting his hair.

I loop the rope around him, careful, precise. Wrists tied behind the chair. I double-knot everything, yanking so hard that Andrew grunts.

When it’s done, I step back, wiping sweat from my forehead.

I circle the chair slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. Andrew’s head lolls to one side, jaw slack. Vulnerable. Helpless. Perfect.

“You’re mine now,” I whisper.

The idea warms him in a way nothing else has in years. A twisted glow in the hollow place his parents left behind when they traded him for business trips and charity galas.

Upstairs, the house is silent. No one to hear. No one to stop him.

I kneel, brushing Andrew’s hair back from his forehead.

Then Andrew stirs. His eyes flutter open, groggy, confused. His lips part, a hoarse sound scraping from his throat.

The game is starting.

“Oliver, what the hell is this?” Andrew jerks against the restraints, panic edging his voice. “Let me go!”

“No.” I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. My nails dig into his skin as I sneer, “You’ve had your time in the limelight. Everyone loves Andrew. Everyone wants Andrew. And I’m supposed to smile and wait my turn?”

He tries to protest, stammering, “Dude, what are you—”

I slap my hand over his mouth, cutting him off. “Shut up.” My voice comes out low, shaking with anger I’ve kept buried for years. “You’re going to learn what it feels like to be second best. To sit there, helpless, while the person you thought was yours chooses everyone else over you.”

His muffled sounds scrape against my palm, but I lean closer, my smile twisting. “Don’t worry, Andrew. I’ll still be your friend.”