“She’s somethin’, Pop,” Griffin—that traitor—says.
Pop’s brows bunch. “You’ve met her?”
“Yesterday,” my brother gloats with another smirk.
“You like her?”
“Yes,” Griffin and I answer at the same time. I shoot my twin a glare.
Pop glances between us and then focuses on his newspaper again. “‘Bout time you did something besides hang around here.”
It might not sound like much, but coming from Pop, it’s a glowing endorsement.
“Glad you approve,” I mutter dryly, but it’s the truth.
He grunts. “Well, I know you wouldn’t have stayed up all night if storms weren’t in the forecast, no matter how much you like her.”
I take a bite of cornbread and chew instead of responding because I’m pretty sure he’s wrong.
I would’ve spent all day with Hattie yesterday if I could have.
And all night.
She was the one at two a.m. who said she needed to hang up and get to sleep. I was the one who couldn’t get enough.
Her birthday is March 14th, so she likes to have pie instead of cake. Her favorite is blackberry. Anyone who tries to sing “Happy Birthday” to her is asking to be shanked.
She’s impressed that I have a distillery even though she doesn’t like alcohol.
She tried gummies once with Margaret and her sister’s friends and spent the night flat on her back, gripping her sister’s mattress, worried she’d fall into space. So, to quote her, “Never doing that shit again.”
She’s a Swiftie but hates the term. She liked watching The Eras Tour on Disney Plus but says she doesn’t think she’d survive the overstimulation of an actual concert, even with headphones.
She said kissing me felt better than masturbation, and yes, I almost came in my shorts at the thought of kissing her while she touched herself.
Jesus Christ, what an image.
And it’s an image that gets shot to hell when there’s a rap on the front door, followed immediately by the sound of it opening. “Morning!”
It’s Uncle Paul.
Shit.
Griffin and I exchange a look before the man strides into the kitchen, a slightly younger, but a stronger and steadier version of Pop.
“Mornin’, Paul,” Pop grumbles, though I don’t think he’s any more excited to see his brother than we are.
“Smells good in here,” Uncle Paul booms.
“Griffin made Gracie’s cornbread,” Pop says, and I think I hear a lilt of pride in his voice. “Go on and grab a plate.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Uncle Paul helps himself to a plate and a mug and then a seat at the table. “Griffin, so good to see you. The Big Easy treating you alright? How’s… how’s Kennedy?”
Uncle Paul is Griffin’s godfather. He did not go to my brother’s wedding. Every time Griffin and Kennedy kiss or touch in his presence, he pointedly looks away.
I wonder what he’d say about Kennedy’s theory that he’s a latent homosexual.
“Think about it,” my brother-in-law said one night after he and Grif got back from their honeymoon. We’d gone to Adopted Dog Brewery for a few beers. “The man is a confirmed bachelor. Never married, never even engaged. He contributed a thousand dollars to our honeymoon fund, but he doesn’t come to the wedding? It’s because he knew he’d jizz his shorts at the sight of us kissing.”
