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“I wouldn’t punch a girl,” he says.
“You shouldn’t punch anyone.”
“You didn’t mind me scaring off Brett when he came to your window,” he says, arms crossed over his chest.
I lean my elbows on the table and pinch the bridge of my nose, because I really wish I hadn’t called Silas to deal with that. I should have called the police, or just waited for him to leave, or anything but asking my over-protective brother with caveman tendencies to come interfere.
“I shouldn’t have asked you,” I tell him. “Listen, that was a mistake, okay?”
“What? Why?”
“Because in your mind that validated every action you’ve ever taken against a romantic interest of mine,” I say. “The one time I really needed your help I asked for it. I didn’t ask you to punch my boyfriend or to be a jerk to everyone I’ve ever dated or to make Jake Echols join the damn Army.”
Silas says nothing.
“Levi told me the real reason you crashed the truck into the creek,” I sigh.
“What else has he told you about me?”
I stare at Silas for a moment, searching my memory vaults.
“That you’re thinking about getting a dog? I don’t know, Silas, we don’t discuss you that much.”
“Hi! Y’all ready to order?” asks the waitress, who just materialized out of nowhere by our table. The perkiness of her tone tells me that she’s definitely aware that she interrupted a fight.
“You go first,” Silas says, glowering.
I smile at the waitress. I smile too much.
“I’ll have the stuffed Belgian waffles, please,” I say, and she nods.
Silas clears his throat, skimming the menu.
“I’ll take the eggs Benedict,” he finally says. “Thanks.”
“I’ll be right back with more coffee!” the waitress says brightly, then leaves.
I look at Silas. He looks back at me. We both look away, and for several minutes, neither of us says anything. The waitress comes and goes with the coffee, and we both thank her politely.
At last, I carefully rearrange my silverware next to my plate, sigh, and break the silence.
“You fancy now?” I ask.
Silas just narrows his eyes.
“Eggs Benedict,” I say.
“They’re good,” he says. “And God knows I can’t make them myself.”
“Fancypants Flynn over here,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m fancy,” he says, and a smile creeps onto his face. “You want to know how fancy?”
“Tell me.”
He leans forward, like he’s about to tell me something in confidence.
“I bought the name-brand orange juice,” he says.
“No,” I gasp.
“Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” he says. “You know what else? Thousand thread count sheets. And enormous, fluffy towels. I’m living like a king, Junebug.”
“I had no idea your tastes were so sophisticated,” I tease.
“Yeah, I’m at the cutting edge of shit,” he says, smiling.
Then he looks away for a moment, at the wall of Eggs Over Belgium, but he’s obviously not looking there. He’s looking somewhere else, far away, and for a long, my normally-talkative brother is dead quiet.
“I bought the sheets because I thought it might help me sleep,” he suddenly says, his voice quiet, with none of the cocky swagger it had a moment ago. “And I bought the towels because I also bought a bunch of nice bath stuff, because I had this idea that I could take more baths, that it might help me relax sometimes when I can’t sleep.”
“Does it help?” I ask.
“I can’t tell,” he says. He takes his coffee mug and holds it between his palms, looks into it. “The therapy helps. The meds help. Having close, stable relationships helps.”
Silas has never said the words post-traumatic stress disorder aloud in my hearing, but I’m not stupid. He did three service tours. No one comes back from that unscathed.
“He’s never breathed a word to me,” I tell him. “He wouldn’t. You know Levi. He’s Levi.”
Silas nods, still staring into his coffee.
“It’s weird,” he says. “It’s gonna take me a little while.”
“I get it,” I tell him.
“But I’m also glad you stopped dating douchebags,” he says, finally looking up at me. “Levi’s…”
Silas trails off.
“He’s a good dude,” he finally says. “A really good dude. And I probably shouldn’t have punched him in the face.”
“Probably?”
“It was five in the morning,” Silas says, lifting his coffee to his lips. “No. When he left it was five in the morning and we spent a while in the kitchen with frozen food on our faces, so it was even earlier than that when he showed up.”
I sigh and give him that look.
“You may not understand getting mad about someone dating your sister, but I know you understand getting mad about someone knocking on your door before the sun is even up,” he says.
“So you’re going to apologize?” I ask, ignoring the fact that he’s right and most of my violent fantasies have come about as a result of being awoken before the sun.
He just looks at me, sipping his coffee.
“Silas,” I insist, and he laughs.
