“Hedid.” Seb huffs, taking B’s hand to examine it. “It’s just a little scratch, Stitch.”
B’s worried expression seems to relax a little.
There’s that caretaker instinct again.My stomach flutters, watching them hold hands.What the heck is wrong with me?
Clearly, I’ve been hanging around Charlie and her two boyfriends for too long.
“What happened?” I push myself up and walk toward them. “I thought you guys were just clearing out the firepit.”
“Yeah, we did that,” Seb says. “But then Stitch wanted to show me the rooster.”
B looks at me. “I couldn’t leave him again, Fi! He seemed so sad.”
“He’s here?” I narrow my eyes. “You can’t bring him inside. I don’t care what they did onFriends, keeping a bird in the house is unsanitary.”
“Not inhere,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “But I thought we could let him stay in the woodshed now that we’ve taken out a bunch of the wood.”
Seb rolls his eyes. “He’s talking about it like we didn’t already do just that.”
“So you guys were outside so long because…”
“We were moving a chicken,” Seb confirms with a grimace.
“And B’s finger?”
“Captain didn’t like being carried that far, I guess,” B says, a blush creeping up his neck. “He pecked a hole in my glove.”
I take the first-aid kit off the shelf and hand it to B. He opens it and pulls out some ointment and a Band-Aid. “That’s the second finger I’ve almost lost,” he grumbles.
“The firepit is ready if you guys want to try to do hot dogs tonight,” Seb says, watching B struggle to pull apart the Band-Aid wrapper. Finally, he gets impatient and snatches it from him, tears it open, and hands it back.
“Thanks,” Brantley mutters.
I smirk. “Aren’t plain old hot dogs a little pedestrian for your taste, Seb?”
“I thought we’d add cream cheese and grilled onions, and make them Seattle-style.”
Brantley looks up at him, horrified. “You want to dowhatto my wiener?”
“I’m going to need a drink soon,” Sebastian growls. “Otherwise, I won’t last another week.”
B and I look at each other.
“You bought alcohol?” Brantley asks. “And you didn’t tell us?”
“I was saving it.” He shrugs. “Plus, I didn’t know if it was a good idea what with…you know.”
“With my alcohol problem?” B asks. “I know I made some poor choices lately, but I’m dealing with it, remember? Yes, I’ve been hitting it hard for six months, but I’m clean-ish now.” Seb raises a questioning eyebrow, and B sighs. “Don’t judge me for hitting rock bottom. I’m climbing my way back out.” He fingers a pink scar on his palm that I didn’t notice before.
I frown at B.
“I won’t get drunk,” he says earnestly. “And I won’t let it control me.”
I think he can see the uncertainty in my eyes. My mom never kept her promises, especially when it came to her addiction.
B reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, then he looks down shyly. “Besides, I’ve been texting with my sponsor, especially after my withdrawals. I promise I’ll reach out to him if I start feeling like I need more than one or two drinks.”
I swallow and nod, cautiously trusting him. “So whatcha got and where did you hide it?” I ask Seb curiously, changing the subject.
