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Sep 30, 2025

Rich Kid Problems

Conrad Fisher seems to be the luckiest rich kid on the planet. You, a girl having grown up in the poorest suburb in Cousins, hate him on principal, because he seems arrogant- you think he dislikes lower class people like yourself. You fall out of touch with him, staying biased against him, until you're reconnected because of Jeremiah and Belly's wedding. You realize his life was never what you thought it was.

Genre: childhood acquaintances to enemies/strangers to friends to lovers, SLOW burn, mostly set in S3, AU in which Conrad never tells Belly he still loves her (bc he does not), mutual pining, yearning, lots of therapeutic talk, some angst, fluff, kind of a fix it fic bc connie deserves better

No use of y/n - you have a given last name in this story (if you don't like it, don't read it)

Word count: 13k

Conrad Fisher doesn’t know how good he’s got it.

This is your first thought when you see that on his super sweet awesome 16th birthday, Susannah and Adam Fisher had bought their son the newest, next-year edition shiny red Jeep.

With custom speakers, in fact. Which are loudly blaring Birthday, by Katy Perry, as Jeremiah Fisher shakes his ass out the window, laughing diabolically, and Conrad swerves around the roundabout, grinning at his brother, and his parents, who adoringly watch from the line of the hot cocoa cart up ahead.

Rich people pretend to be all practical. I mean, who needs a fancy new car? He could’ve easily made do with a second-hand one. You swallow down your annoyance.

You’re reading on a bench by yourself, right in front of the local community centre. It’s peaceful– it’s a cool, November day, and although you know Cousins is adored during the summer, you’ve always had a secret love for autumn, too. The trees’ leaves are bright, crisp red, the water has cooled to an un-swimmable degree of chilliness, and the air feels solemn and holy in a way you can’t quite describe– almost like the season is slowing down, allowing for rest, through winter and then finally opening back up during spring.

You adore it. You think of it as a time that you get to relax and just be yourself, not like during the summer, when there are constant beach parties with the coolest, richest teens around. Where debutante balls and trust funds make a bigger appearance than during any other time of the year. Where tourists make it clear that they have enough funds to come here just for the hell of it– unlike you, who’s lived here her entire life, and can’t afford to leave.

It’s not anyone’s fault. You live in the poorest neighbourhood in Cousins– right at the intersection of Cliff Commons and Main Street– and it’s purely because your family inherited your home. It’s the wealthiest asset in your lives, and your family can just make by here, comfortably enough to make some savings. Selling and uprooting your lives to be somewhere else is something you’ve considered, too– but your mom admits it’s a much bigger pain in the ass to do so. Careers and bills don’t quite line up anywhere else.

So you get treated like a poor person despite living here year-round.

None of that is the Fishers’ fault, though, and it’s Conrad’s birthday, too. And you don’t want to be an asshole– it’s just that Conrad and his brother seem to have it all in this world.

You sigh and then flip a page. You settle into your jacket, hoping that they leave soon.

Jeremiah is sitting back down in his seat, and you think they’re about to drive away, when they suddenly park right in front of your bench.

You blink. “...?”

“Hey. What are you reading?” Jeremiah asks through the open window, as if he’s genuinely curious.

You focus on his question.

It’s Jane Eyre– one of your favourite books. The plot is terribly relevant to you. Without the romance, you feel like Jane. Poor, plain, not belonging to the society she’s stuck in.

Before you can answer, Conrad elbows him. “Jere, leave her alone– she’s clearly focused.”

He always seems to finish a sentence for you– effectively blocking you out.

“Is focused code for staring at us the whole time you were driving?” Jeremiah shoots back at him, with an easy smile. He looks back at you.

You don’t hate Jeremiah, not at all, really. He’s more like an annoying kid– despite being the same age as you, he never seems to mean any harm towards you.

Not until right now, where he’s basically calling you out.

Conrad can’t quite make eye-contact with you, so you know he was wondering about this, too. Conrad is the one that you never got along with, never during young play dates during the summer. He’s the one who always acted awkward around you, as if you don’t belong here– and you’ve never forgotten it.

You smile sweetly at Jeremiah, and then glare at Conrad, thinly veiled through your smile. “I was just wondering why you guys have such a sweet ride.”

“Wanna take it for a spin?” Jeremiah starts, before Conrad coughs uncomfortably.

“No, that’s okay.” You look pointedly at Conrad. “Happy birthday, Fisher.”

You enjoy the look of stunned silence on his face, and walk away.

It was rare that you’d see them at any point during the year that wasn’t summer, but Jeremiah and Conrad loved any excuse to come to Cousins– Christmas was often that time, but special birthdays were important, too.

The year Conrad turned ten, there was a massive party down at the square– Susannah and Adam set up a little weekend getaway, just for him, and invited almost everyone to the local bakery for carrot cake and milkshakes. You do remember wishing him a happy birthday, and hugging him excitedly, as nine year olds do– and Susannah gently prying you off, as Conrad couldn’t bare to hug you and ruin his cool guy reputation. Of course.

And then, when Jeremiah and you both turned ten the next year– double digits!– you in May, Jeremiah in late September, you got a new bicycle, and Jeremiah got a brand new PS4. During his birthday party, when all the local kids were invited to their beach house, you remember playing a random fps game that you were terrible at– and you were incredibly jealous that they could have games that were so polished with high definition graphics, while you were still playing your parents’ old Nintendo 64.

That was when you met Belly Conklin.

“Whoa, hey! I don’t know you.” An eager nine-year old with thick, black hair down her back, and funny glasses, is staring you down as you pass the controller to a red-headed kid.

“I’m–”

“Mann.” Conrad finishes for you, all cool and nonchalant because he’s eleven years old now. “She’s from around here, Belly.”

“Well, that’s just my last name…” You feel desperately uncool that this Belly girl seems to know Conrad and Jeremiah even better than you do– and you’re here year round.

Typical of the boys to never remember your first name. When you were all really young, basically seven and under, you made jokes about being Fisher-Mann together– and you’d rush into the sea, hoping to find a fish to prove your skills.

It’s a silly memory that should make you fond of them, but instead, you resent how close they pretend to be to you.

“Belly is a nickname. My full name is Isabel Susannah Conklin.” She proudly announces, and you feel your insides shrivel, knowing that whoever this girl is, she must be really important to the family if she’s named after Susannah. “I usually come here every summer, but my mom let us come to Jere’s birthday this time!”

She clasps your hands, excited, and you do your best to smile, but your ten-year old heart is too young to understand that you’re feeling left out. That life isn’t always fair.

“Is that baby Belly?” Your mom, usually a safe place for you to run over to, comes around, and pokes Belly’s face, and she grins at her, and now you’re really grouchy and despondent. Why does your mom know her? Even worse, why does she like her?

“Mom…” You pull her sleeve, and your mom looks at you with a bit of trepidation. “Who–”

“Belly is a friend of the Fishers, honey.” Your mom explains as if you should know this. “She was there when we would have beach trips together, remember?”

You don’t– not really– but this information reminds you that summer used to be a time for everyone to hang out, bonfires and night swims and movies at the drive in, until the Fishers (and you guess the Conklins) would do their own separate stuff.

Rich person stuff? Maybe. Or maybe it was just without the Mann family. The last time you remember hanging out with them properly during the summer, with all the other local kids… you must’ve been eight.

You want to throw a tantrum, that you’re so sidelined that some other girl– as if you were even important enough to have that label of the Fisher boys’ girl best friend and then be replaced– has always had their attention and now does so, undivided.

You’re too young to realize that they don’t hate you– a lack of acknowledgment isn’t hate– but old enough to know you can’t beg people to be friends with you.

No, especially not when you’re just regular-degular middle class, as your mom loves to say. She herself has rejected invites to fancy balls and luxe barbecues in villas around here, because that’s just not a place you can fit into, and people are not always inclusive of you guys– and if that fails a relationship, as hard as it might be, your mom has always told you that friends need to be there for you, too.

The Fishers aren’t really there for you. A hard truth for a ten year old to suddenly reckon with– it’s not that you didn’t know you weren’t best friends, but you thought you were closer than just mere neighbours– and you sigh and get more punch.

“Being ten sucks.” You mutter into your glass, hoping no one hears you.

“Eleven is much worse. Trust me.” Conrad remarks drily from his corner in the kitchen, where he’s sipping on Gatorade, with it’s unneeded electrolytes.

Just when you were feeling unnoticed, Conrad always seems to spring up at the worst moment, making you feel seen and then unseen all over again as he hovers, unsure of what to make of you, and then looking away again.

You know he doesn’t care now, but it still stings.

After that, years of growing up and being confident in your own place in the world just makes you ambivalent about the Fishers. You’ve always been cordial to each other– but you know the way they live their lives is something you’ll never relate to. And so you’ve come to accept that you don’t like them, and you don’t have to pretend to, as much as rich people love to canoodle and act like nothing is ever wrong.

At the very least, you refuse to suck up to them just because they’re well off. Classism and elitism are terms you love to throw around, much to your parent’s chagrin.

“It almost makes me happy, Deena, that they were such dicks still.” You’re gossiping on the phone to your best friend, peppy, supersmart, always willing to give good advice.

You’re lying on the old pull-out couch in your basement. Many games of poker have been played down here with your friends and family, but right now, it’s just a great place to gossip where your mom won’t reprimand you for it.

“Were they? They sounded perfectly neutral to me.” She replies back, smacking her gum, and you hear writing sounds in the background– Deena must be preparing for exams already. “I mean, how were Jeremiah and Conrad Fisher supposed to know that you hate them for being able to afford a new car?”

“One: I don’t hate them.” You state, and Deena bursts out in laughter. “No, really! Two: Conrad Fisher got it as a gift. God, it’s like people like that don’t even know how good they’ve got it, Deena, and I wish they just had some self awareness.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I’m still saving for my car next year.” Deena sighs wistfully. “That 2012 Honda Fit is going to be mine.”

“Okay, true. Maybe I should just calm down.” You exhale.

Deena moves on to talking about the semi-formal, and you listen, hoping that you never have to run into Conrad again.

Of course, them owning a summer house and all, you do end up seeing him. Every summer, the Fishers and Conklins make their drive up to Cousins Beach, and you know they’re here because every time, without fail, you see Conrad, again and again.

It doesn’t even have to be for a particular reason– he’s just around, like at your local convenience store, down by the beach kicking rocks, or maybe just taking a stroll down the street.

It makes you fume for some reason. The way he looks up, and then looks away– as if you’re not worth a second glance. This is your home, isn’t it? Cousins Beach was more yours than his, considering you would always be here, and probably die here, too.

So you hold your ground. You refuse to look away from him, daring him to avoid you when you say “Hey.”

He’s always mildly surprised, and it gives you a tiny bit of glee to have knocked Conrad Fisher off guard. “Hey.”

And then you’re on your way again, off back to your own neighbourhood and your own life.

You don’t actually actively think about Conrad for the most part, other than those brief glimpses during summer, for the other part of your teenage years. Dislike eventually melted away into indifference, because you never really saw the Fishers again.

Other than when Susannah died, and your mom was so desolate, because Susannah wasn’t really like the other rich people around Cousins, she was always a kind person, and you both made a nice care package to send over to their house.

Then all you could think about was how he must have struggled. Him and Jeremiah, and maybe that girl, Belly, if she was still friends with them. It was horrible to lose a mom– you don’t know what you’d do without yours, because she was all you had in the world.

You know at some point there were rumors of the Fishers selling the house, which made sense to you– maybe a bitter reminder of the life they once had– but that doesn’t seemed to have happened, as much as you and your mom joked about buying it.

“As if we could afford that view, Mom!” You had laughed as she insisted that being a twenty minute walk away from such a view wasn’t too shabby, too. That your family has done well for itself.

She wasn’t wrong. You were very proud of your mother– she’d climbed up the corporate building blocks and been promoted to a senior manager role at her job, making your situation not nearly as desolate as it once was. Yes, you could finally say that you’re middle class, rather than just lower-middle as you once were.

And then, a few years later, after you finished high school and college, you’ve started working as a paralegal for one of the smaller firms up in Boston– about an hour drive from your house, so you choose to make the commute rather than waste money on rent, for now.

Life is good.

At least, life was good, until you receive a call from Belly Conklin, on the first day of August, 2027.

You’re surprised. You never really talked to the girl, so you’ve got no idea why she’s calling.

You’re staring at the caller ID, currently doing laundry at your house, basket against your hip, until you decide to answer.

“Hello?” You hope you don’t sound too confused. Belly always seemed to be the sweetest out of the kids at the Fisher Beach House– she was the only one who really bothered to say hello first, a lot of the time.

“Hi!” Belly mentions your name. “It is you, right? Do you still go by Mann?”

“Hi, Belly.” Your stomach twists in a way that feels nostalgic– Mann was something that only the Fishers really called you, way back when. “Sure I do. Do you still go by Belly?”

“Never really stopped!” She laughs, and you feel a bit more at ease. “I’m calling because it’s been a while, and I wanted to ask if you and your mom were still coming to our wedding?”

Your brain stops for a moment. What on earth is she talking about?

For some reason, you just assume she’s talking about Conrad and herself. They seem to fit– you think you’ve noticed something through the meagre glances you stole at them glancing at each other through out the years. And why else would Belly invite you to a wedding if not through the relation of the Fishers?

“Mann? Hello?” She’s still waiting for your answer.

“Right, gimme just one second…” You scratch your head in the meantime, setting down your laundry basket and sitting in front of the machine. “Do you mind if I just–”

“Ask your mom?” Belly responds in turn. “Yeah, of course, go for it. I’m sure it’s a bit of a surprise– Adam just went ahead and invited a ton of people, I think he was using his assistant, who was using Susannah’s contact list– so there’s a lot of people who had no idea about the wedding who, well, they know now! That’s not to say we don’t want you here– it’s just awkward, maybe…?”

You grimace to yourself. That doesn’t sound ideal, it sounds like Conrad and Belly asked his father to deal with the invites because they couldn’t care less who came or didn’t. Sounds like a big mistake, as if you’re Cinderella going to a ball by request of the King and Queen for everyone to come.

You don’t have a fairy godmother to dress you up for such an affair either.

But on the other hand– you’d love a free dinner, and drinks. Whatever crazy rich people shenanigans they get up to will be gossip for you and your mom to yap about for ages. Plus, with years of missing out on the events for the socialites of Cousins, you don’t mind showing up.

Maybe a part of you wants them to see that you’re not doing so bad yourself.

“Belly, it’s all good. I don’t mind coming to your wedding, and I’m sure Mom doesn’t either.” You answer, and you can hear Belly smile and squeal through the phone.

“Okay! Awesome. Sorry, I know how it must feel– I honestly always feel out of place at all these fancy events and things, too– and you were probably like ‘agh, why do they want us to come to this?’ But it means so much that you’re coming! Susannah would’ve wanted you guys there.” Belly exclaims, and you feel a little pang of guilt, now.

Belly grew up comparably to you, and here you are thinking that she’s one of them, one of those ghastly evil Fisher boys. Men, now, you suppose. She was probably a fish out of water her whole life– and now she’s marrying into that kind of life. It warms you to her considerably.

And you just know she never meant any harm by this whole invite situation– in fact, look at her, trying to make it alright, insisting that Susannah would’ve wanted you there– and you know she’s right. Susannah was always nice to you and your mom no matter how many times your mom apologetically couldn’t come to a party she was throwing.

“Thanks, Belly. I really appreciate that.” You say sincerely, and she bids you goodbye.

“Mom?” You call out, and your mom answers, half-asleep on the couch in your living room.

“...Yeah?”

You sigh, and walk out into the living room, and shake her lightly, waking her.

“Ugh, kid.” She yawns. “Yeah?”

“Did we get an invite to a wedding recently?” You cross your arms, waiting for an answer. You need to know when it is– you can’t believed you RSVP’d just like that.

“Oh, yeah. There, it’s on the counter–” Your mom points to the kitchen island counter behind the couch.

You rifle through some bills and find, sure enough, a cream coloured envelope. Inside is a very fancy invitation with embossments of flowers and seashells, a jellyfish illustration, and serif writing proclaiming:

We cordially invite you to celebrate the wedding of: Ms. Isabel Susannah Conklin & Mr. Jeremiah Adam Fisher

That’s odd.

You could’ve sworn that Belly and Conrad were going to be it, but it’s not like you know them like that. Who knows what could’ve transpired over the last few years?

The date listed is August 6th, 2027.

You breathe a sigh of relief– That’s on a Friday, and you don’t work Fridays anyways. And your mom has more than enough days off.

With the wedding in the back of your mind, you get back to doing your laundry.

Conrad hates himself for choosing to be here.

He thought it would be fine– helping Belly with wedding stuff, being there for Jere, whatever he could do, he would do.

But he’s exhausted.

Ever since Belly and Jeremiah had announced their wedding together– so many people had been against it, but Conrad knew he had to be there for them if no one else was, and it was killing him inside.

He loves– loved her. He doesn’t want to give a name to that feeling, choosing to place it in the past, but he knows it’s going to be impossible to get over until after this whole thing is done.

Not even Cousins was really helping him unwind at all. He always left the beach house every morning– not wanting to intrude on domestic bliss after Belly and Jeremiah decided to stay there.

The beach was tiring, too. Swimming made him want to drown. Somehow he just feels lost no matter where he looked.

And it was all thanks to Belly. She was always going to be the one that got away, and unfortunately, for Conrad, having grown up with her, there was a piece of Belly everywhere he looked. Her laugh was what he missed the most.

Of course Jeremiah got to hear it every single day, now. They can’t stop canoodling, even now, sitting at the counter, as Conrad checks out what’s in the fridge.

Obviously he can’t trust these two kids to get groceries, so he tells them he’d be out.

They barely notice as Jeremiah starts kissing Belly’s neck, and Conrad resists the urge to gag.

The Cousins Supermarket is kind of busy this time around. Not surprisingly, considering it’s a Sunday and all.

Conrad says hello to Enid, the lovely older woman who works the in-store flower boutique– and she tells him they’re having a deal on bouquets, 12.99 for 2, which he says he’ll keep in mind.

His heart sinks again, remembering that he’s not marrying Belly, and Belly already couldn’t buy flowers at that much more expensive boutique– so he suggested Susannah’s hydrangeas, and now he’s wishing again he was the one with Belly, dumb and young and in love, needing to save money because they barely have any to begin with, with the wedding swallowing costs, budgeting so their futures are set.

He sighs. Time will make these feelings pass, he knows.

He knows Belly loves sugar, but it can’t just be pastries and soda in the pantry, so he gets to finding some vegetables, protein, carbs, really all the food groups that would be good to keep the happy couple healthy.

Conrad is staring down different meats when there’s a voice that interrupts his train of thought.

“Hey, sorry.” It’s you, and you’re reaching for the marked down rib-eyes that he’s standing in front of. “Fisher.”

“Mann.” He gives you a self-conscious nod, as if you’re bros, and feels a teeny bit embarrassed about it. “Sorry. Let me move out of the way.”

You’re quick to grab the package, and you open your mouth like you’re about to say something.

Conrad isn’t sure when you’ve grown up, but you have. Your hair is styled in a way that reads grown-woman rather than awkward teen, your handbag is leather rather than a polyester belt-bag, and you’ve got heeled sandals on, that add half an inch to your height. There’s a translucent pinky gloss on your lips, too, and he remembers– you’re twenty-two years old now.

You look confident, but not mean. And then he wonders why he would think you’re mean, except… you always used to glare at him.

He hardly remembers the last time he’s seen you– but he’s sure of it. You used to have a real stink eye for him.

You shut your mouth, not knowing what to say.

“Here for the wedding?” Conrad fills in the blanks, and then raises his eyebrows at his own stupidity. “Uh, sorry– you–”

“Live here.” You smirk at him, glad Conrad is the same as ever, and he shakes his head.

“Sorry. Really, that’s my bad, I just forgot.” He sees your eyes squint, and continues to perhaps bury himself deeper into the hole he’s started to dig. “I mean, you’re not forgettable, Mann– I’m just surrounded by wedding shit all the time, so it was the first thing out of my mouth. I didn’t mean to make you feel–”

“Left out?” You’re enjoying this a little too much, as Conrad’s mouth is left agape, and he struggles with what to say next. You don’t know when Conrad became such a doormat, considering what an aloof kid he used to be, but it makes you happy– you feel, for once, that Conrad is the one groveling for your attention.

And then you blink at that thought. Are you seriously that insecure? That petty, all these years, that you wanted him to see that you don’t have to be the one groveling just because of your financial background?

No, you’re gonna extend an olive branch. You refuse to let Conrad have a thing above you, that he can be nicer than you now. And if that’s petty, too, well you’re not gonna look that deeply into it.

Fair’s fair.

“Don’t worry, Fisher, I’m fucking with you.” You laugh, looking down, and it actually sets Conrad off, as he blinks, traces his arm, and smiles sheepishly, if not a little confused.

“You were always really intense.” He mentions, and your head snaps back up, wondering when he could’ve noticed such a thing.

It’s why you went into law. You argue with an intensity that almost no one wants to be on the other side of– almost to your detriment at times, where you have to learn to lay off.

This would be a good time to lay off, you think. He doesn’t seem exactly the same as he once was, and he’s staring at you like he needs a lifeline– he’s struggling with something.

You can tell he’d almost welcome an argument for all the wrong reasons. To feel worse about himself in the end. His blue eyes have a hollowness to them now.

“To answer your question, yes, I am coming to the wedding.” You explain, stepping forward a bit, to be friendly, while Conrad stares at you intently. “I didn’t even know we were invited, honestly. Me and my mom are pretty used to being left out of things.”

“I’m–”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” You shake your head, and Conrad sighs in relief.

You frown at how serious he is.

“I feel like I’ve been apologizing for everything the last few years.” Conrad admits to you, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Conrad Fisher? He’s been wrong about things?” You joke, and he smiles a real smile.

“I’ve been dead wrong about a lot.” There’s a solemnness to the way he says that, and you don’t know why that is, but you don’t want to pry.

“Anyways, it’s no secret that me and my mom have a different income to the rest of you guys. It’s no one’s fault.” You shrug, but Conrad won’t shake this look of intense guilt. “It’s easier to avoid going to expensive parties so you can pay bills, you know? But Belly told me we were in Susannah’s contact list, and she would’ve wanted us there.”

“You’re right. She would have.” Conrad grins. “Mom was always open to anyone who would have her.”

“Yeah.” You think about Susannah and think about how she never talked to you any differently, even with the fact that you and your mom hardly ever made it to the beach house for margaritas and what-not. “She was really sweet. I know she probably wished more than anything to be there for Jeremiah and Belly.”

“Yeah, she probably did.” Conrad’s face changes a bit, you notice, almost in displeasure, before he suddenly changes the subject. “I… gotta go buy these groceries, but I’ll catch you around? A lot of the wedding party is arriving today, but I’m sure they don’t need me bugging them.” It floors you to see Conrad, of all the people you’ve ever known, asking you to potentially hang. In fact, he’s quite literally hanging on to see your answer– puppy dog eyes and all.

“I’ll see what I can do. Can’t make any promises, I have a riveting episode of Dawson’s Creek waiting for me at home.” You tentatively remark, wondering who you think you are, making plans with a guy that was never really your friend.

“Awesome.” Conrad laughs, and he then asks for your number, staring at the floor, and then your face, the entire time you’re typing it into his phone.

He sends a text– “Hey, it’s Conrad Fisher :)” and you feel more than just tolerance. Maybe you’re not made out of ice.

Maybe you had him pegged all wrong.

The Dawson’s Creek episode is one you’ve seen a million times growing up. It’s the wedding finale episode, and it’s a little on the nose for what’s happening right now, so you can’t put Conrad out of your mind.

You have a million unanswered questions.

Why does he seem so depressed? What happened to that kid, the one who was too smart and cool for everyone?

Or was it just growing up, where you realize you don’t know everything, and the real weight of the world is on you?

No. It’s something deeper, you can tell. That boy is troubled by something, and even though you don’t owe him anything, you care enough to alleviate his spirits, at least a little.

It replays in your mind that Conrad seemed especially upset over mention of Jeremiah and Belly.

You pause the episode, and instead look at his text message.

A call might be too desperate, you think.

You: Still up for hanging?

Conrad: Yeah, sure.

Conrad: Actually, could you do me a favour?

You: Are we on favour levels of friendship now?

Conrad: If it’s not a big deal sure. Ask me for anything later I just need to

He hit send on that without saying the rest of what it was.

Conrad: I need to get out of here. Can you pick me up or is that too crazy?

Conrad: I’m really sorry about this

Conrad: I just

You furrow your brows. Conrad sure knows how to make the night eventful, you guess. It hasn’t even been 24 hours and now you’re his buddy he calls to pick you up?

You: What about jeremiah?

Conrad: i’m at his bach party and it’s going really poorly. I gotta leave

You: Okay fine. but you owe me!!

Conrad reacts with a thumbs up to that last message, and sends you the address.

It’s a bar. In Downtown Cousins. Fuck, you really hope he isn’t drunk.

The last thing you want to do is be near him when he’s in such a vulnerable state, especially because you hardly know the guy at this point and he’s already been so up and down today. Who knows how clingy he’ll be right now? Until he suddenly turns avoidant, as he always used to be.

But maybe he’s really got no one else to reach out to.

You sigh, knowing you’re going to pick him up, but you’re going to put a heavy boundary in place later on.

Conrad wants to yell at Jeremiah so, so badly. But the guy is so drunk, he can’t function, and nothing Conrad could say right now would stick in his mind.

He wants to fucking throttle him.

Bad enough that he has Belly, but to cheat on her? To treat her like she’s nothing more than a disposable tissue for a wank, easily replaceable by the next one?

It makes him genuinely shocked. He’s in such disbelief, he feels like he never knew Jere or Belly.

How could she be so okay with this? To go ahead, and marry him anyways? Conrad doesn’t think she knows. There’s no way the Isabel Conklin he knew would’ve done this.

He’s swaying back and forth, in the front of the bar. He hardly knows you, he knows that– he just doesn’t know who to trust within this circle of apparent liars.

Conrad wants out.

And when he sees a chocolate brown Suzuki Swift pull up to the curb, with you waving out the driver’s window, he feels an enormous sense of relief.

You’re very apprehensive. He’s standing on the sidewalk, in a polo and khakis, and he doesn’t seem drunk– just very pale and sweaty, and his eyes are wide and shell shocked. You have even more questions.

Conrad opens the door to the passenger seat. And sits down, shutting the door, putting on his seatbelt, all wordlessly, but with the frantic nature of someone who wants to leave.

You decide not to pressure him. Just sitting there, until he asks you to drive.

“Where to?” You think about making a silly remark about being his uber driver.

“Just around. Please.” Conrad coughs, and you shrug, thinking that you hardly take joyrides anyways.

When you’ve driven at least a mile, Conrad finally speaks up. He’d been staring out the window for ages– and every once in a while, he’d turn to you, staring at you, which you could feel but you chose to focus on the road, obviously– and you wanted him to say something the entire time.

You don’t do great with pregnant silences like that. The paralegal side of you was waiting to interrogate him on what was up, but your weird ambiguous acquaintanceship with him made it impossible to do so.

You still have a modicum of respect for him.

“Sorry, by the way.” Conrad starts, and now, all the emotions he was keeping at bay suddenly come through by way of his sudden verbosity. “I know you probably have better things to do and you don't know me like that. I just, I didn’t really know who else I could ask to just help out. I know that sounds fucked, but listen– I just needed someone new, someone removed from the whole thing, even though it’s kind of my fault. I just can’t be alone in good conscience right now.”

You’re silent for a moment as Conrad searches your face for a response. It’s not that you’re trying to scare him by lack of an answer– although unintentionally, he does become fearful that you’re not going to understand, and he’s really just taking a leap here– it’s just that you’re truly at a loss at how to comfort him when you never thought of Conrad being capable of saying that much all in one go.

He’s someone who you still think of as too cool. Not vulnerable, not like this.

Conrad really does need a friend, you realize.

“Can’t be alone in good conscience? Do I need call a suicide helpline, Fisher?” You dryly comment, secretly hoping your shitty banter will lighten his spirits a little.

He actually grins, and then laughs really hard. It almost sounds like he’s crying– it’s maybe a bit too far for how unfunny your joke was– but you understand, he needs to let go of some weight on his chest.

“Nothing that serious, Mann.” Conrad leans back in the seat, breathing really hard. “I just needed a friend. If you don’t mind me being so forward.”

For some inane, childish reason, you feel your face turn warm, but you know the guy didn’t mean anything actually forward.

“No, we’re on favours-level now.” You smile at him, and he exhales, smiling very lightly, although his eyes are still watery.

“Conrad.” You lightly tread the conversation here, and he blinks, because you have never really called him Conrad before. “Do you want to talk about it with me? Or do you want me to drop me off at your house–” Before you can even finish your sentence, Conrad shakes his head.

“I can’t go back.” He sounds so sullen. “Everywhere I go, I just get reminded of how fucked up it all is.”

You nod at that, still lost.

You take him to your favourite, greasy pizza place that’s a bit further out of Cousins, more up north and away from the general traffic of rich summer house owners, and tourists.

As in, there’s no way any of the wedding party can find you guys here.

Conrad has been bouncing on the balls of his feet since you both entered the restaurant. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like what he’d be used to. Off-white, yellowing linoleum counters. Fluorescent, dated menu screens that are also yellowing. $1.99 slices of pizza, large and thin and oily, but cheesy and hot and very tasty. You’d vouch for them on your life.

“What do you usually get?” Conrad asks quietly, leaning to the side to hear you better, and you shake your head.

“So typical of a rich kid.” You snort, and Conrad’s face falls, before his lips form a thin, firm smile.

“Why? Because I want an informed experience?” He retorts, and you blink before laughing.

“No, it’s just funny to tease you. Sorry.” You bite your lip. “I don’t even really know what I meant– maybe that you wouldn’t know a place like this, obviously.”

“I’ve been to shitty hole-in-the-wall restaurants.” Conrad insists with an argumentative tone, but you laugh dismissively.

“Really? Where, NYC?” You raise your eyebrows at him expectantly. “I bet you couldn’t even guess where my cheap clothes are from.”

You motion down to your old sweatshorts and hoodie combo, and Conrad gives you a look-over, and suddenly you remember that he’s a guy and he’s kind of cute when he leans in like that, thinking.

Except, he’s hurting, and you’re clearly just thirsting since you haven’t had any romantic tension in a while. Regular banter is getting to you.

Conrad holds his jaw as he thinks. “Maybe the Gap?”

“Uh, no.” You look down to examine your sloppy outfit. “The hoodie is from Walmart. The shorts… actually, wait, might be from the Gap? They’re my mom’s. Nice, Conrad, I never even noticed that. You’ve got an eye for detail.”

It’s a silly compliment, but Conrad’s feeling so low, he takes it.

“Thanks.” He smiles, genuinely, his eyes lighting up a little, and you feel glad.

“Anyways. Best thing to order would probably be a cheese. Best way to see how they do the basics.” You murmur to him.

“Smart.” Conrad replies.

Sitting at a booth, two slices into the giant pizza you’ve ordered, which Conrad insisted on paying for since you already picked him up and offered to be a willing ear to listen to his problems– favour for a favour was his argument– he finally tells you.

“I dated Belly.” He says, all non-committal, but you can see his neck tighten and clench at her name. “Years and years ago. You would think I’m over it, but…”

“Well, you guys kinda grew up together. Right?” You comment, biting a crust covered in this place’s buttermilk-based hot sauce. “She’s your white whale.”

“Right. I’m Captain Ahab.” Conrad adds, gesturing with his hands. “I just always felt like it was supposed to be us. We were always on the same wave length– always understood each other instantly. I guess, as cliche as it sounds, we never got the fucking timing right.”

The sudden expletive makes you bite your tongue. “Elaborate a little.”

“Just that, after my mom died–” Conrad does the thing you’ve seen in common with other grieving people, he kind of sinks into himself for a second. “I struggled a lot to tell her how I was feeling. What was up with me. And I think Belly blamed it on herself, that I wasn’t caring, or really there for her, even though I told her I couldn’t do that in that moment, that it was my fault, as hard as I wanted to try for us– so she ended things on prom night. Later on, she told me she thought I never loved her like that.”

“Sounds like you were a pretty shit communicator, Conrad.” You comment, just to see his reaction, but he agrees.

“Yeah. I should’ve been honest from the beginning.” Conrad shakes his head, and takes a bite of his own slice of pizza. “I should’ve shown her that I did care, I did love her more than she thought.”

“No.” You interject a bit too loudly, and the night shift employee grimaces at you. “Sorry. No, Conrad. I don’t see anything so wrong with what you’ve said you did.”

“And what if I’m an unreliable narrator?” Conrad side-eyes you, but you side-eye him back.

“No unreliable narrator makes themselves sound so self-deprecatingly pathetic. No offense.” You respond, and he smiles at that. “Listen. It sounds like you’re taking way too much of the blame in this whole situation. Your mother passed away. You were struggling, it’s not your fault that you reacted the way you did. Forgive yourself for not being perfect at every moment.”

“But I…” Conrad sighs. “Even if that was true, I should’ve spoken up. I should’ve told her I did love her so she wouldn’t be marrying that asshole.”

“Life’s easier in hindsight, I know.” You say, not unkindly. “Listen to me. You might’ve done some things wrong, but that doesn’t mean you were the only person at fault. Why wasn’t she there for you? Why was she so quick to assume that your feelings were more shallow than they were?”

“Belly shouldn’t have had to deal with my silent and brooding shit.” Conrad jumps to her defense, but even he knows with his years of therapy now, that you have to find people to rely on. “I should have told her what was up so she could’ve been there for me, for real.”

“Very true. I do think she would’ve been there if you’d let her, I won’t lie.” You admit, finally, and Conrad is glad to hear it. “But that still doesn’t mean Belly doesn’t have her own faults. You say you love her, and maybe you do, too much, that you can’t see how insecure she sounds. Belly’s assumption of your feelings being shallow means she clearly didn’t have much faith in your relationship, either– maybe she thought she wasn’t worth it.”

“Because I made her feel that way.” Conrad argues, stubborn to a fault.

“Easy cop-out. You can give someone like that all the love confessions in the world, and they’ll still find something wrong with it– because they think they’re unlovable.” You lean in. “Hear me out, because I’m just guessing based on what you’ve told me: did Belly ever put you on a pedestal, make you feel like you were the perfect, older, wiser one?”

Conrad nods, slowly, his eyes turning inquisitive.

“And you couldn’t meet those standards, obviously, because nobody’s perfect. But even worse– Belly puts herself below you, by her own insecurity. She refuses to speak on the fact that she doesn’t see herself as worth it for you, instead choosing to let you grovel and apologize for things. And that’s because she doesn’t see the point anymore– she’s stubborn, and a bad communicator, too.” You finish off. “Or so I think. I could be wrong.”

Conrad groans. “Are you a fucking lawyer, or something?”

“Nah, just a lousy paralegal.” You tap the table, thinking. “I don’t know, Conrad, don’t listen to me. I’m entirely an outsider looking in.”

“Fuck, you’re not wrong.” Conrad mulls over what you’ve said, and then nods, his expression turning more frantic. “She never– I don’t think I ever thought she should’ve apologized to me. She never made it less than crystal clear that she totally adored me, and the very second I was imperfect, I failed… she fucking bailed on me.”

“Uh–”

“She loved me to an unfair standard.” Conrad blinks away angry tears. “Fuck, fuck, that’s why she’s so okay with Jeremiah, because he half-asses everything so Belly would never expect much from him.”

“Oh.” You frown at that. “I don’t really remember much about Jeremiah, to be honest.”

“Well, good, you won’t have any memories ruined, because he’s a fucking cheater and I’m the only person who gives a shit, apparently.” Conrad huffs, and then shakes his head. “Sorry. Sorry. That’s why I needed to get out of the bar– I heard him and his friends gloating over that shit. Fucking disgusting.”

“You apologize too much, Conrad.” You gently hold his forearm from across the table, and he looks up at you, blinking, half-enraged still, breathing heavily. “I don’t think very highly of Jeremiah at this moment, considering he went after his brother’s ex, or of Belly for marrying him, despite it all. I’m with you. Sure, it might just be because I’ve only heard your side, but… I’m choosing to believe you, okay?”

He’s blinking back tears. Conrad feels like he’s spent years just wanting someone from the group to listen to him– to just be on his side for once, instead of villainizing him for everything, expecting him to fix everything wrong. And it’s the first time, ever, with you by his side, that he’s felt like it wasn’t all his fault.

Like he had been wronged, too, and now been heard properly for the first time.

Conrad's overwhelmed.

He collapses very quietly into small, short sobs, sniffling in a way that you can barely hear him. Repressed to a fault, Conrad is.

“Hey. Hey. It’s gonna be okay.” You move to his side of the booth, and against your better judgment, hug him from the side, your arms around his shoulders, which Conrad gratefully takes, his face buried in your shoulder. He doesn’t exactly hug you back– he just lets you hold him.

“M’sorry.” He says, hurriedly, wiping his tears, trying to fix things, because you’re new to him and he doesn’t want to push you away with his bullshit.

But you look at him and you don’t look judging, just concerned for him, and as you stand up, holding his hand, dragging him and the pizza box back to your car, he’s so beholden to your empathy that he can’t help but follow you.

It’s weirdly intimate, you won’t lie. This is someone you haven’t talked to in years, and suddenly, you’re hugging him, comforting him. Things like this don’t normally happen in 24 hours. You know you went past every boundary that you swore you would set.

But you don’t think Conrad Fisher is going to hurt you, based on what he’s told you today.

Conrad, for the life of him, is still trying not to break down in the passenger seat, and it’s not until you squeeze his shoulder comfortingly, that he starts talking again in a wavery voice.

“I never– I always thought I had to be the responsible one. Big brother, you know?” He quivers a little at the end of the sentence and you nod encouragingly. “I never felt like I was allowed to have my own problems, but you really helped me. Thank you, genuinely– I don’t think I would’ve ever made a breakthrough without you.”

“Not even with therapy?” You ask, but you feel guilty that you were enjoying Conrad's overly apologetic nature earlier in the day.

Conrad grimaces.

“Don’t know. Most of the time the therapist would suggest ways for me to fix myself.” Conrad admits, and you make a face at that. “I really, really thought I loved her, you know? I was going to do anything for her.”

“Yeah.” You say, thinking that you’ve never been that in love, and Conrad frowns again.

“I think I just loved the idea of her.” Conrad slumps back in the seat, pushing his hair back. “I don’t think I ever really knew her.”

You dropped him off home around 4 AM. You hoped that was late enough for him not to get ambushed by anyone at the beach house, but Conrad said not to worry since he felt he could handle it.

You hoped he was right about that.

Because of how close you came together, both you and Conrad found it apropos to take some time apart. So you're not overbearing on each other, but also because both of you are unsure if the other person is even really comfortable with the current agreement of whatever it is you got going on.

Two idiots, really. Both overly conscious of potentially hurting someone else.

Honestly, you couldn't get your interactions with him off your mind. You hope he is alright, but a part of you also just wants to know what he's up to.

To you, it's the most interesting thing that's happened all year.

Eventually, after it's been about 2 days and you've had time to think, you text him in the middle of the night.

You: hey, you good?

The message is read almost instantly, but he doesn't reply for at least fifteen minutes.

Oh, god, why does this make you feel sick? You're sure it's just childhood trauma– wanting to impress the cool kids.

Conrad swallows, and then commits to texting you, as he lies in his bed. He doesn't want to bug you, even as you offered yourself up, but you're extremely comforting to talk to and a very nice distraction from all the mess. Belly and Jere and the wedding party have regularly been celebrating in the house– and the more he's there, the more he knows he hasn't loved her for years, which feels bittersweet to know now.

Plus the important thing he took away from talking to you is that he has to take up space. So he will.

Conrad: Hey. I’m actually doing great, really all thanks to our talk. I have no idea if you were even comfortable with it. I hope it helps you to know how helpful it was for me.

It’s such a kind message that you were never expecting him to say. He is a sweet guy– you feel like maybe under the veneer of aloofness, Conrad is just really introverted.

Conrad: Sorry that I took so long to message you, anyways. I didn't want to be too annoying, just wanted to say a final thanks

You: you are very welcome. Glad I could help and that you’re doing better.

You: FINAL thanks??? Conrad you better not kill yourself please. I'm invested now

Conrad: what, really? I thought you were just in it for the pizza

You: hahaha. No really I do care. Sorry if I came across kind of weird earlier that day

You: realistically I just want what's best for anyone

Conrad: aw so there's nothing special about me?

There's a pause on your end, no immediate response, and Conrad– who hasn't felt anything a while, other than a lingering obsession for Belly for years– wonders if he's flirting a little.

Wonders if he likes it.

You: I think we both know you're very special

You: for one thing, you have access to a trust fund

Conrad smiles to himself sheepishly.

Conrad: not anymore

You: anymore??

Conrad: I'll explain it later. Tomorrow if you want

You: I'm not busy anyways. Took the week off to use up vacation days. Was gonna go wedding gift + outfit shopping

Conrad: great. I can repay the favour

You: ???

You: Conrad, you already did that. You bought the pizza, remember?

Conrad: surely you can't think your advice is only worth a 5.99 XL pizza

Now you, in your own bed, smile sheepishly, before you think about how Conrad is in an emotionally vulnerable state and you're kind of a bad person to take advantage of that. You're not asking him out or anything, it's just that it feels… delicate.

But feelings are going to make themselves felt, and you can't control them with perfect robotic logic. You think you might have a slight inkling of a crush.

One that you'll shut down, because for one thing– he's probably not over Belly, and for the other thing– how could you be his type?

You: and what if I said yes I do think that?

Conrad: then I'd say you're really undervaluing your services and maybe we need to get you paid a higher wage

You:omg

Conrad: kidding. But you can't stop me from repaying what I think you deserve, okay?

Conrad: call it friendship idk.

You: help I'm being terrorized by a rich man lording his wealth over me and he's calling it friendship

Conrad: please. My father was Rich Man. You can call me Conrad

You burst out laughing at that, not realizing how funny Conrad could be.

Conrad picks you up the next day in his nice, new silver Range Rover.

Actually, he knocks on your door at 8:30 AM on the dot. And you, you're not even dressed– still wearing a giant t-shirt that reads “life's a BEACH” and itty bitty short shorts. Your hair is disheveled and all over the place.

“Cute.” Conrad comments, in the way that you remembered him to be as a kid. Observant, but not exactly mean– just dry. “I like the shirt.”

“Because it's true, right?” You yawn, letting him in. “Sorry. I didn't expect you here so early, Fisher.”

He blinks. “Are we back on a last name basis?”

“Did you ever stop calling me Mann?” You retort, and he grins at that.

“I guess not.”

“You can take a seat– unless my humble beginnings offend you in some way, Fisher.” You point to the couch, and Conrad sits down, not even looking put-off, which you have to give him credit for.

“Who's at the door? Is it my package?” Your mom calls, and she comes downstairs to see, well, Conrad. “Oh!”

“Forgive me for the intrusion, Mrs. Mann.” Conrad immediately stands up and apologizes, and your mom looks to you with a glance that reads do-you-know-this-man.

“Mom, it’s Conrad. Conrad Fisher?” You motion at him, and Conrad, being the kind of guy to be silly but also entirely serious about it, spins around on the spot, so your mom gets a good look at him.

You stifle a laugh, and Conrad looks at you conspiratorially, yet seriously, as if he’s daring you to laugh– you and him are starting to share a sense of humor.

“Oh. You’ve really grown up, Conrad. I’m sorry– I didn’t recognize you.” Your mom finally says, after taking a long gander at him, and then back at you, with more questions apparent on her face.

“That’s totally my bad.” Conrad takes the blame, even though you told him to stop doing that so much. “I should have visited more often.”

“No, no. That’s okay. Maybe she could’ve reached out more.” Your mom points a finger at you, and you shrug with a slightly teenage attitude. “So, not to be an overbearing parent, but why are you here? Just curious, I swear.”

You know that tone of voice. Your mom is about to make a massive Mom-sin and say something embarrassing.

“Mom–” You try to interject, but it’s too late.

“I mean, she used to really hate you when you guys were kids.” Your mom elaborates, and you exhale, face in your hands, as if the most private secret of your whole life has been revealed– it’s not that deep, and yet you know from the way Conrad is looking at you, he’s never going to let this go.

“I know.” He grins at your mom. “I’m trying to change that.”

You think he’s just saving face.

“Mom, Conrad’s just helping me go shopping for the wedding stuff today, alright? Like the gift and the dress and things?” You try to move her along with your answer, but she stops in her tracks towards the kitchen.

“Really? But he’s the groom’s brother, isn’t he? Why would he be helping some girl that used to hate him, when there’s probably a ton of wedding planning to do?” She prattles on, not noticing how you are losing your patience a little.

Conrad notices, though. He notices everything– guilty of being the older brother, he guesses.

“To be honest, Mrs. Mann,” Conrad starts, and you really hope that he’s not going to start explaining everything about Belly being his ex and awkward tension with her and his brother is preventing him from helping out.

Your mom’s a gossip, and hearing that will probably permanently seal her to your couch, listening to this story for good.

“The wedding’s pretty much covered. Belly and Jere don’t need any help– they’re all just out there partying.” Conrad asserts, which isn’t exactly wrong– it’s more like even if he offered help, they wouldn’t take it at this point.

You’re so glad he can read your signals, somehow.

“Okay. How kind of you, Conrad.” Your mom smiles at him, and gently touches his shoulder. He smiles back, and your mom looks at you, and you know she’s thinking something romantic is happening, because why else would he care enough to come and help you with these things?

As if– this is just a strange friendship. You’re sure as soon as all of these favours are over and done with, you and Conrad will both have gotten a nice experience out of this summer– nothing more.

“So, Mann. You used to hate me.” Conrad notes, when you’re both in his car, and you’ve gotten all ready and comfortable, wearing capri jeans and a flowy top.

“Ugh, Fisher, don’t start with that.” You request. “Please? My mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I never hated you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I hated Jeremiah.” You try, but all it takes is one sputter on Conrad’s part to make you start laughing. “Okay, no. But I swear I never–”

“No, it’s fine, Mann.” Conrad counters you, as he begins to park in a spot, near the downtown shops of Cousins. “I know you did.”

“What?” You fix a quizzical glance on him. “Even if that was true, what do you mean, you know?”

“I saw the way you used to look at me.” Conrad admits, and you want to refute that– but he’s already exiting the car, shutting the door, and you’re walking after him.

“But– Conrad–” You want to apologize, now, because you’re worried that he’s offended. That he might think you were trying to pull one over him, and that’s why you were so kind to him– so you could laugh in his face now.

You have no intent of doing that, but you don’t want him to have the wrong impression of you, anyways.

“Have you ever noticed that you only use my first name when you’re being nice to me?” He inquires, with a little smirk, and you stop right next to him.

He’s staring down at you. The sun shining through his brown hair, his eyes looking more like the blue of the sky behind him.

“Yeah, because I care about you, Conrad.” You stress, before you can even stop yourself from saying it.

But it’s true, isn’t it? Even if you grow apart after this week of convenient friendship– and you will, surely, as adult friendships typically go– you do care about him.

It feels like a loss to admit it. Like you’re already mourning him.

And so you look up at him tentatively, to see if admitting this has any effect on the fact that he knows you hated him, once upon a time.

Conrad has never look more self-assured. Kind, even, as his eyes glance over yours.

“Relax, Mann.” He grins, finally. “I know you used to hate me. Obviously, you don’t now.”

You do relax, visibly, and Conrad thinks you look much more agreeable– you’re very pretty even when you’re angry, though.

And he’s been on the receiving end of your angry face for years.

“What I want to know,” He says your name, and continues on. “Is why you did. Why you hated me, past tense.”

“Wow, Conrad.” You fold your arms together, and start walking to the nearest dress shop. “We’re certainly having a lot of heart-to-hearts for people who are barely friends.”

“Maybe this is what will make us good friends, then.” Conrad says. “Being honest– the start to any good friendship, right?”

“Besides,” He continues again, as you’re entering the store. “Therapy taught me to stop repressing shit. So I wanna make sure every relationship I have starts on the right foot.”

“Very true.” You take a look over at all the dresses, ignoring the way your face is flushing at Conrad’s use of “relationship.”

“I just hope you’re not trauma bonding with me,” You kid, and your eye is immediately caught by a taupe-silver dress that’s got little gemstones along the bodice.

“No. I’m not.” Conrad says far too seriously, that makes your stomach flip-flop so you excuse yourself to go try on this dress in the fitting room– and another random one you grab on the way there.

After zipping yourself in the random dress– a butter yellow monstrosity that was clearly on trend a couple years ago– you poke your head out.

“Still want to know why I hated you, Fisher?” You remark, and he gestures for you to continue from his seat on the couch.

“Definitely.” He leans forward to hear you. And maybe to check out how you look in the dress.

Not in that way, no way. Just to tell you if it looks right for the wedding. If it’s formal enough.

“Okay.” You step out, and before Conrad can say a thing about the dress, you launch into the backstory. “Don’t judge me, okay. In my defense, I was a bratty kid, who didn’t know any better.”

“I might’ve been just as bratty.”

“...” You turn towards the mirror, and then back to him. “I used to really dislike you, because you seemed like this perfect rich kid, who got everything handed to him, and you had the nerve to also be kind of cool and hard to talk to– looking back you might have just been shy, honestly– and I thought we were friends, so it really hurt my feelings, as a kid, that you were rejecting me, because I guess in my fucked up self esteem, as a kid, I thought it was because I was poor. I kinda assumed you hated poorer people, which was wrong.”

“Jesus Christ.” Conrad raises his eyebrows, and you raise a finger.

“Again, I cannot emphasize this enough: As a literal child.” You stress. “I don’t believe that anymore, Conrad.”

“Is that why you make so many comments about me being rich and having a trust fund?” Conrad throws back at you, and you’re actually at a loss for words.

“Um, you kind of out-manoeuvred me on that one.” You admit, and sit down. “Listen– I don’t think you’re some rich asshole now. Those are just jokes.”

“I know, I just thought it was funny to point out.” Conrad laughs to himself. “You’re not wrong, though. I’ve thought the same– we are a bunch of shitty trust fund kids. Although, we don’t have trust funds anymore. It all went to the summer house.”

“Oh.” You don’t know if you should apologize.

“Don’t apologize, please.” Conrad interjects. “I don’t think we will ever be broke or homeless or hungry, so I don’t care not to have the trust fund. And I know that’s a privileged thing to think, too– I just am very aware of my good fortune in life. I didn’t have to pay for college, Mann, I didn’t even have to worry about having good grades because I went to good schools that offer good education as a kid. Life’s incredibly unfair when you’re rich.”

“You really… know what you’re talking about.” You conclude, knowing you can’t add anything, because he’s right, and Conrad nods.

“That’s why I want to be a doctor. Help people legitimately. Not to be a corporate overlord like my dad.” Conrad finishes, and you are genuinely surprised.

You knew Conrad was smart– he was one of those annoying, smart-yet-cool people as a kid, who could have it all– you just didn’t know he was in pre-med.

“I’m seriously impressed and at a loss for words.” You say, and he shakes his head.

“Stop it, it’s nothing that deep.” He shrugs. “I just had this need to prove myself. As one of the good ones, I guess.”

“No such thing as a good oligarch.” You joke, and Conrad chuckles.

“I know.” He leans back in his sofa seat. “I wish you would’ve told me when we were kids.”

“What, that you were kinda stand-offish?”

“No, just that you wanted to still be friends.” Conrad says, and you realize that you did say that.

You did admit to wanting their friendship as a kid, but still would imply that you had it.

“I… I’m not sure if I would’ve articulated it correctly, at that age.” You shrug, and Conrad is staring at you, absentmindedly. “You might’ve thought I was crazy, assuming that we were close enough to even argue being friends.”

“Excuse me?” Conrad frowns. “We were friends. Sure, maybe friendships fall apart, maybe it’s been years of silence since, but I never forgot being friends with you back then.”

You don’t believe him, and he can tell.

“Remember the Fisher-Mann joke we used to make?” Conrad says in a slightly pleading tone, and you do remember.

“If we fused, we’d be the best fisherman Cousins would ever see.” You remember it now. You would clamber onto Conrad’s shoulders and he’d run into the sea, as if you guys could catch a fish like that.

It’s a fond childhood memory, one that you didn’t realize he would remember.

“I didn’t think it meant anything to you, but I’m glad it did.” You smile at him, and he smiles back. “I’m glad we became friends again.”

“Me too.” Conrad stands up, suddenly, and comes forward, which makes your smile drop. “It means I can tell you in confidence that that dress is… not the best.”

You pause, shut your eyes at the audacity, but also secretly commend him for phrasing it in a way that’s so neutral it’s not even hurtful. “Thanks, Fisher.”

“There’s the last name, again. No, don’t worry, I like it, it indicates that you’re not playing nice anymore.” Conrad pushes you back into the fitting room while you protest a little. “Try on the other dress, Mann.”

“The first one?”

“Yeah.”

You don’t know why you shied away from it– maybe because it’s a lot more fancy than anything you’re used to wearing.

“This better not be a My Fair Lady situation, Fisher…” You slowly pull back the curtain and walk out.

It’s a silvery, dark gray-taupe silk gown, with spaghetti straps, and a open back with a tie up situation, a long ribbon zig-zagging across your bare back. The bodice is a ruched material fashioned in a sort of sweetheart-neckline, and along the border there are little stones that reflect white in the light.

You’re waiting for him to say something. He’s just staring at you, thinking, and you need to know what he wants to say.

“It doesn’t fit the best, I think…” You turn over in the mirror, seeing how loose it seems around your waist and chest.

You feel a bit out of your element. The nicest dress you own is from Banana Republic.

Conrad comes up behind you.

“Turn around?” He utters, and you stiffen at how close he is. You can feel his breath on the back of your head. “Just trust me.”

You gently nod.

Conrad re-ties the corset so the bodice and waist sit higher and fit you a lot better. His fingers kind of trace your backside for a moment, and you turn, an unspoken whisper of Conrad flitting in your throat.

It dies when he leans in.

“Mann?” He kinda murmurs, and there’s a beat of tension that you didn’t know things were leading towards. “You look great. Really pretty, in fact.”

That sentence replays in your head all night, after you’ve gone home, when you’re bundled up in your blankets but you’re unable to sleep.

You’re sweaty, your heart’s racing.

But you can’t help but have a rather girlish excitement over the whole thing– he called you pretty, and he meant it. You know he wouldn’t lie– he said it to help your confidence, too.

So you wouldn’t feel out of place at the wedding.

Afterwards, you had moved away, unsure of what to say, and Conrad blinked, and then turned red, as if he’d been too caught up in the moment.

But he never apologized for it, either, never took back the moment– just let it be.

And then as you went to buy a gift for Jeremiah and Belly– matching cufflinks and earrings– you accidentally bumped into Conrad in the department store, and he held his hand against your waist to steady you, and then moved back again, but not as far as he could have.

You know it’s all new, and unsteady, and there’s no need to question what could just be considered flirting, at this point.

But you’re wary that he could just be clinging onto the next thing, after Belly. You don’t want to be a rebound– you’re still a person with your own feelings.

You hope Conrad sees that, too.

It might be crazy for Conrad to even think this, so early on, but to not admit his feelings would be akin to lying.

He’s looking forward to seeing you at the wedding.

That… shouldn’t be his first thought at his brother’s wedding, but he’s stopped caring about that. The only highlight of this ceremony has been getting to know you.

He hasn’t even bothered to pay attention to whatever dance they’ve been practicing this morning. Sure, his moves are floppy, but Jeremiah is just happy that his big brother is actually participating.

Conrad might still be a little angry– that Jere could do that, cheat on someone– but he’s not so cruel so to not be there for Jeremiah. Actually, he finds that he and Belly never had a relationship worth sacrificing Jeremiah for.

By the time Conrad is up by the altar, next to Jeremiah, he doesn’t feel that ache that he felt a week ago. That Belly should’ve been his– that he was entitled to her presence, that she loved him back, that she was this impossible fantasy of a perfect girl, and that he should’ve married her.

No, he doesn’t feel anything but a weird aftertaste to the whole thing, something that feels like what if there was still a chance, even though he knows that’s not worth thinking about. He can see that visually, at least, they’re happy together– whether or not that’s true is up to Jere and Belly.

And when she walks down the aisle, Conrad looks down that way for the first time, not just to see her, but the entire crowd, as well.

Of course his dad invited everyone, through fucking Kayleigh, too.

But at least that means you are there. Next to your mom, wearing the dress Conrad decided was better for you– not that he’s trying to claim ownership.

And how gorgeous you look, Conrad thinks, with your hair done more elegantly, and your face made up to really draw attention to your lovely features.

When your glance finally catches his– and there’s a slight realization there, that it’s him and it’s you, together, looking at each other– Conrad realizes he’s got it for you, badly.

At the reception, you’re sitting at your assigned seat in the country club, laughing at a kid dancing along really poorly to whatever shitty EDM music Jeremiah must’ve picked.

There’s a tap on your shoulder.

It’s Conrad, wearing a tuxedo suit, looking especially bold now that he’s left the groom’s table first, to come and talk to you. He seems to genuinely light up when you make eye contact with him.

“Aw, Fisher.” You stand up from your seat, and do something that bolsters your burgeoning relationship further– you hug him, and he hugs you back. “Tell the happy couple I said congrats, will you?”

“Sure.” He whispers in your ear, not letting go of the hug until you do. Still, his hand traces your arm lightly.

You don’t mind that. Not even with your mom noticing and tutting in the background.

And she’s not the only one, either. Lots of other people in relation to the Fishers, whether that be through family or business, are staring at you now.

You know what they’re thinking. Who’s the mystery woman who’s managed to capture a satisfactory match with a wealthy male?

“It’s all very Jane Austen, isn’t it, Conrad?” You whisper, hoping he gets it.

“I know. They’re not even hiding the fact that they’re eyeing you up,” Conrad whispers back, his mouth very nearly grazing your ear, which causes your face to flush. “I hate it. Sorry, but I really do. I don’t care what kind of money or status you have.”

“Oh, Conrad Fisher, my saviour.” You snort, and he lightly shoves your arm, but he’s fighting back laughter.

Belly makes a very beautiful bride. You can admit that.

But you wonder if Conrad notices, that with every moment, she glances at him, too.

You’re not exactly jealous– you don’t have enough of a stake in the situation to be jealous– but you’re kind of anxious. You really do like him– you just wonder if there’s anything still lingering inside him for Belly.

You don’t want to be hurt.

She might be married now, but there’s something strangely possessive about the way she looks at him. And Conrad, good natured as ever, doesn’t even bother to look at her unless he’s looking at the married couple.

As if he really, truly, does not care.

On the dance floor, Conrad– despite being a horrific dancer, and shy in his own right– has nervous energy to expend, and you seem to be his only friend right now, at least the only person available to dance with, so he’s yanking you out there.

“Fisher, seriously–” You pretend to yank yourself back, in a half ass fashion, but you actually do love to let loose on the dance floor, so you move forward, and he pulls a little too hard, and you kind of land into his arms all by accident.

“Oh.” He says, way too close, gazing into your eyes.

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, and then let go, not wanting to have a great big romantic moment at someone else’s wedding.

At his ex girlfriend’s wedding.

You don’t want to be that girl. Swooping in like a vulture, and grabbing Conrad like he’s just a bunch of vulnerable remains for you to gobble up.

You don’t think Conrad is thinking clearly, either. He won’t stop looking at your face, reading into something.

“What, Mann? What is it?” He asks, and you shake your head, the thumping music getting to you. “You know you can tell me anything at this point–”

“That’s just it, Fisher!” You chide him, and he looks deeply confused. “Can I talk to you? Outside?”

Conrad is worried.

Worried you’re about to tell him that you think things are moving too fast, even though he was sure– this time– that everything was mutual.

He doesn’t want to lose you as a friend, too. So he’s preparing to swallow down his feelings– much easier when there’s not such a strong sense of nostalgia wrapped around the whole thing, like Belly.

But he sees you thinking, outside in the cold air of the country club, your brows furrowed in such a level of focus that he knows only you would have– and he really knows that he likes you, and it’s not as simple as just wishing it away.

“Conrad–” You start, but you catch him already looking at you, and you don’t know what to say. “I…”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, staring from your eyes to your lips, and you can’t take it.

“I think that you know already.” You say, instead, and he nods. “Us, that there is kind of an us now, you know?”

“I know.” Conrad sighs, a deep, rumbling sigh, and he takes your hand, holding it in his own.

It’s much more intimate than the first time you held his hand– comforting him as he cried, leaving the pizza place– this is heavy with something else.

Some kind of tension.

“But.” You swallow, eyes flitting between looking at Conrad’s eyes and looking at the ground. “I just feel like, maybe, it’s too soon. You might still love…”

Conrad says your name. “No, listen. I don’t love her anymore.”

“But how do you know you’re not just getting wrapped up in the next fun thing?” You plead with him, and his face drops. “There’s years of growing up together, and then the time that you were in love with her, and that might have been years ago, but I can’t really compare to that, Conrad.”

“I don’t think you do.” Conrad says, and then blinks back in surprise at what he said. “Shit, that’s not what I meant. I meant that you’re entirely different.”

“Oh.” You still frown, though, and Conrad hates that, so he traces the side of your face, trying to get you to smile again.

It sort of works.

“I don’t want to compare you guys.” Conrad says, but he realizes you’re not going to be satisfied with that answer. “Okay, listen. Belly will always be apart of my past, my memories, that much is true.”

You nod, waiting to hear him proclaim that a part of him will always love her.

“But I think it’s a load of bullshit that you think you’re not enough for me. You’re not just a ‘fun thing’, or a rebound, you’re interesting in your own right– you’re your own woman, and if you let me, I’d want to get to know you in that way.” Conrad affirms, his face hard with how serious he means this. “I don’t love her– I loved the idea of her, remember? I was carrying a torch for nothing more than her memory. We talked about this before.”

“But still– what if you’re not over–”

“What if I’m not over some nostalgic feeling I get when I see her?” Conrad answers, cementing that it’s just that. “Childhood nostalgia. When you think destiny is written in the stars, instead of something you make your own. I’m an adult– I can choose to ignore that, and I’m going to, because–”

“I know. You’re gonna say you want something new with me, something you can make on your own.” You add to his poetic phrasing. “I just, I want to ask that we take it slowly, Conrad, if you’re really being serious–”

“So you do like me, Mann?” Conrad interrupts, and you blink at his question.

“Is it not obvious? I do.” You laugh, and Conrad grins.

“I just wanted to hear you say it.” He admits, and you put your face against his chest.

“You’ve been through a lot, Conrad.” You tell him, and he knows that, but it feels good again to hear you say it. “You deserve to be happy.”

“And I think that’s with you.” Conrad insists in a hushed whisper, and then he does what he was thinking of in the dress boutique, when he came far too close for words.

He leans in, holding your face, and kisses you, and it is exciting, because it’s you, and he knows he really does like you, in an entirely different and new way that he ever liked anyone else.

You haven’t been kissed in a while, let alone with someone you actually like, and you’re trying not to get overwhelmed– but Conrad unfortunately is a very good kisser, and it flusters you when he suddenly dives in further, bending down so he can kiss you harder, and you kind of shiver into his mouth, but you feel him groan into it, and you know it’s doing something for him, too.

And you smile– which Conrad mimics, himself, but he doesn’t let you go. Not just yet.

As Conrad kisses you, he thinks that first loves are kind of overrated. Or, that love is new every time you experience it with a new person.

And– as he would tell you later on– you were right to “hate” him back then. Conrad feels like there’s a very thin line between hate and love– you would only ever be so obsessive about someone you cared about.

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