Caleb’s voice was steady. “Obviously.”
The word carried great emphasis. Great emphasis and great history, and I knew exactly what was coming because Caleb had a documented list and he was about to read from it.
“The sourdough starter,” he said. “You told Burke about it before it had a name.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was excited. Burke was standing there. The moment had energy.”
“It was a jar of flour and water.”
“It was potential.”
Caleb’s eyebrow went up. “Rawley knows about the goat documentary.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You cried during the goat documentary.”
“I was moved. The goat had a journey.”
“The goat was named Gary and he found a friend. That’s the entire plot.”
“Gary’s journey was emotional. Objectively emotional. I stand by it.”
Caleb took a breath. “And Sterling.”
I winced. “That was strategically useful.”
“You told him I named the sourdough starter after him.”
“It worked, didn’t it? He’s in the bed. The bed I bought. The very expensive bed that he said was ‘acceptable’ after using it one night.”
Caleb’s expression did not change. The stare was level, warm, and completely unconvinced. Twenty-four years of Mitch excuses had built up a specific immunity in my brother’s face, and I was watching it activate in real time.
“Promise me,” he said.
“I promise.”
He kept staring.
“I promise on the hat.”
Caleb’s expression shifted. His eyes went to the hat sitting on the bathroom counter where I’d left it last night, the tan cowboy hat that had been on my head through three states, two blown transmissions, and one extremely ill-advised attempt to ride a mechanical bull.
The hat was sacred. The hat was non-negotiable. The hat was the only thing I owned that had never betrayed me, and Caleb knew it.
“That,” he said, “is the first thing you’ve ever said that I actually believe.”
He stood up. Brushed off his pajama pants. His hands were steady, which was impressive given that approximately ninetyseconds ago he’d been revisiting Tuesday’s dinner with the toilet bowl’s full cooperation.
The thin morning light caught the side of his face, turning his strawberry blond hair gold at the edges, and the expression he wore now was pure, unfiltered Caleb: warm and stubborn and already six steps ahead of whatever came next.
I stayed on the cold tile a moment longer. My sock was still missing. The wood stove kept ticking. Sterling slept on the other side of the wall, unaware that his entire life was about to acquire dimensions he had not authorized and would not be allowed to refuse, and the responsibility of being the one who had to tell him settled into my chest with a weight that was familiar and entirely new at the same time.
I was going to need a better promise than the hat.
