Maybe Mark was hesitating because he and Joan had plans—secret relationship plans—tonight. I shoved a bite of too-hot pasta in my mouth and then inhaled through the pain.
My eyes slid to Joan, who didn’t seem to be giving Mark signals with her facial expression. She wasn’t even looking at him. Her gaze was focused on her ham sandwich. I still wasn’t sure what—or if—anything was going on there.
With another knee bump, Mark shifted uncomfortably and drew my attention again. “I don’t know, man.”
“Come on,” my brother begged. “I’ll buy you a beer. Abby’s a friend. I want him to have a good turnout. Plus, I hear there’s going to be a timed hot-wing-eating contest. I’ll need moral support.”
“Oh my God,” I said with glee. “You should have led with that. I can’t wait to see you suffer.”
My idiot brother deserved it, too, after this morning with the whole MacKenzie-Clark-attacked-my-honor-and-my-home routine and the subsequent pouting. I couldn’t wait to see him get his butt kicked in Scoville units.
Mark still looked unsure as he poked at his homemade rice bowl, but he eventually said, “Alright. I’ll come.”
Brady’s grin was triumphant. He held his hand up for a high five, but Mark just gave him a look. Then my brother pivoted and held his palm out to me. I grinned and slapped it a little harder than was necessary.
“Damn,” he whined, shaking out his hand. “Okay, this’ll be great. Try to get there around six.”
The following day, I had time to set up the hay bales for the pumpkin patch and put a second coat of paint on the side of the Apple House before I needed to shower and get ready for grand opening at Flyers.
The restaurant was packed with locals—plenty of residents I recognized. I loved that there were so many people here. Neighbors and families all present to support Cole. Even with the noise and the rowdy atmosphere, I had a smile on my face. There was something to be said for community and kinship.
After being away for the better part of a decade, I was surprised to find that I was comfortable in my hometown. I knew that sounded strange, but I’d never really experienced Kirby Falls as an adult, on my own terms. But here I was, waist-deep in my community and just as content here as I had been in Manhattan. I could drink a beer on a Saturday night or visit a food truck for dinner. Attend a restaurant opening where the staff wore matching tee shirts and people stood in line at a counter to order. It wasn’t brunch in Brooklyn or a picnic in Central Park. But as much as I enjoyed my time up north, there was really no comparison.
I’d rather drink tea with my mother every morning than take my lunch break at the Met. While I was comfortable people-watching or reading on the subway, I’d rather walk through downtown Kirby Falls or drive along the highway with the mountains in the distance.
Both settings had a piece of my heart. Attending college in New York had helped me grow up, but Kirby Falls had raised me.
One was home, and the other was not. And my heart knew the difference.
Looking around now, I saw all these laughing, smiling residents, and I was flooded with the overwhelming sense of camaraderie and fellowship, neighborly love and devotion.
Smiling to myself, I took in the rest of the newly renovated space. The Flyers logo was front and center on the brick wall above the order counter, outlined in bright red LED lights. The menu was displayed on three screens overhead and showed all the various sauce options and heat levels.
I glanced around, looking for my brother, but I didn’t see him. After a third person bumped into me and apologized, I made my way toward the back so I could get out of the main thoroughfare.
Mark was easy enough to spot in the crowded restaurant because he’d tucked himself in the corner at a booth for two and seemed to be the only point of stillness in the whole place.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked.
Mark looked up from his phone and straightened. “Of course not. Have a seat.”
“Did you order yet?”
“No,” Mark replied. “I saw them setting up for the contest and figured I’d wait until it died down a little.”
My attention shifted, and, sure enough, there was a long table on the opposite wall being set up and covered with a vinyl tablecloth while people brought over chairs and placed them at intervals on one side. It looked like four brave souls were taking on the ghost pepper dry rub challenge.
“Apparently they have five minutes to finish five wings with no beverage. Anyone who completes the challenge gets a tee shirt and a free meal. But the person who does it the fastest gets their picture on the wall and a gift card.”
I rubbed my hands together. “This is going to be good. Brady can’t handle spicy food. I don’t know what he’s thinking entering this contest.” Grinning, I added, “One time, when we were teenagers, someone dared him to eat a whole habanero. He barfed all night and wouldn’t even touch a bell pepper for years afterward.”
Mark laughed. “This should be interesting, then.”
“Hey, Candy!” The unfamiliar voice caused me to startle in my seat.
When I turned, I found the grown-up version of a boy I hadn’t thought about in years, standing beside our table.
Looking up, I smiled. “Hi, Jay. How are you?”
