Page 65 of Jonesing for a Spy

I was jealous before. But knowing you named it…

Him.

*It.* Makes me want to hunt down all the Kevins and make them pay.

Cute.

Grrr.

And Kevin, apparently, made the trip with me to Illinois.

Can he travel with you to Nashville? He can stowaway and won’t require his own ticket.

It’s doubtful you’ll need him…

Unless you’re following me to Alabama, I will.

I repeat, grrr.

How’s your day?

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and it’s just getting started. Yours?

Lowkey and dull, but after the last week, it’s just what the medic ordered.

“Breakfast,” Mom calls.

Knowing she’s already in a state, I pocket my phone, despite the vibration, and look at Rookie. “Come on, Davie. Carbs will help. Then we can escape outside with some hair of the dog, if need be.”

He groans and pushes himself from the wide chair and follows me to the huge dining room table.

Breakfast is chatty and loud, as it always is when the eight of us are in one room. It’s not lost on me that we’re all here, together. Siblings twenty-seven to thirty-nine under one roof all day for the holiday must be rare.

Mikey is boisterous. Davie’s trying hard just to swallow what’s in front of him. Jamie watches everything and everyone. Charlie keeps the peace. And Johnny says next to nothing.

I don’t think that’s because he has less to contribute so much as he won’t fight for airtime, and since the others can be boisterous, especially around each other, he chooses to stand down. That is, until he forks up—and eats—a bite of eggs that all of us have studiously avoided—all but Mikey and Dad. The sound that comes from him is simultaneous with him throwing his fork Mikey’s way. “Fuck”

Out of nowhere, like some action movie superhero, Dad catches the flinging fork mid-air, holding it aloft for more than a moment before setting it on the table next to him.

“Johnny!” Mom begins, her voice spiraling higher and louder with each word. “We do not throw silverware at the table. Or anywhere for that matter.” She flicks egg remnants off her shoulder. “Ugh.”

No one tells her about the little bits in her hair. None of us would dare.

Mikey looks sheepish. Johnny looks less chastised and more indignant. “Sorry I ate pre-licked eggs at Thanksgiving breakfast. I should’ve known better.”

Oh, the sarcasm. That’s what comes with being as smart as he is and holding his tongue too much at large gatherings. He stands, pours another cup of coffee, and leans a hip into the counter watching us from the outside.

I want to say come back, but I’m not interested in being wrangled either.

The Joneses around the table who feel awkward in silences start speaking in earnest while Davie sinks lower in his chair. I push my juice his way, and he gives me a look of appreciation.

The whole meal is delicious, though, let’s be real, it always is. Add a little bacon grease to eggs and they’re always better, extra butter on biscuits and a nice salty breakfast potato, and I’m a happy girl. I push my plate away, leaving more on it than I’ll be allowed to get away with.

“Not good, Mirri?” Mom asks, slicing accusing eyes Mikey’s way.

“Delicious. But I need to pace myself, you know.” I pat my flat belly for emphasis.

She mumbles under her breath about donuts and coffee filling me up, but I pretend I don’t hear it. The only acceptable answer is for me to stop bringing donuts. And from the empty boxes in the trash, I know my brothers would riot.