Page 19 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

And fuck, is silence loud.

Almost as loud as my mama’s kitchen when we’re all home. Or well, most of us. It’s been a while since all seven of us kids made it to a Sunday dinner. Even longer since we all made it regularly, something that I know hurts Mama’s heart. She understands that we’re adults now, and that life has its own way of taking over, but I know that deep down she wishes all of us were always around. Sometimes even still living under this roof.

Personally, I think that’s because she’s never attended Munch—short for Monday Lunch—the weekly executive meeting at Hayes Industries for the director of each branch of the company. Which, coincidentally, is the seven of us Hayes kids.

“Seriously, Gus?” Willa shrieks.

Her shrill commentary cuts through the Braves game our father, Auggie, has on the radio as he grills. I slowly sip my beer, not bothering to move from the spot on the railing of Magnolia Manor’s large back deck.

Sitting pretty in the middle of large, rolling acres, just down the road from the family’s original plantation house, Magnolia Manor is by no means small. It did have to house nine of us for a number of years. It’s Mama’s dream home, built for her by our father shortly after they got married, since neither of them wanted to live in what is now referred to as Hayes House, which is used as housing for our seasonal workers.

“We can understand and respect history without celebrating it,” Auggie always says when asked why he doesn’t live in the massive antebellum house that his ancestor built with their Civil War fortune.

Instead, he built this place, a bright white, Victorian house with wraparound porch, large back deck, and built-in planters to fulfill Miss Belle’s dream. She named it Magnolia Manor after the region of Georgia that Hickory Hills sits in—and proudly points out that she named our home long before a TV network made another home with a similar name a household name.

“So, Brandt make it to Colorado okay?” Auggie asks, ignoring whatever is going on in the house.

“Yeah. Made it safe and sound, and as far as I know, didn’t forget anything.”

We both chuckle, knowing exactly what my best friend is like. We’ve been inseparable since preschool, so my whole family knows how brilliant and charming the guy is, if not a little absent-minded at times.

“When does it all start?”

“This week. Not exactly sure which day or what his schedule is, other than he won’t be back ’til the week before Rhythm and Brews, leaving me with all the prep work.”

“Nothing you can’t handle.”

Glad one of us thinks so. What he doesn’t know is that I still don’t have any idea what to name this new beer. And the clock is ticking.

“No, I will not calm down!” Willa shrieks again.

Auggie and I both wince, but keep our comments to ourselves. If Willa’s voice can be heard out here, even though she’s still inside the house, I don’t need to be anywhere near that. Actually, come to think of it, moving farther away might be a better idea.

“It’s a solid business question,” Gus, our oldest brother, retorts.

Uh-oh, this isn’t going to end well.

Auggie turns away from the grill, giving me a look expressing the exact same thing I’m thinking. I love my siblings, and we’re about as close as they come, but we’re also all very different people. Each one of us is about as unique as the parts of the company we handle. Gus and Willa, the oldest and youngest of the family, respectively, are no exception.

The back door slides open, Brenna slipping out onto the porch, eyes wide and full of worry, like she’s escaping a war-torn country.

“It feels safer out here,” she says with a soft giggle.

Only because you can’t read my thoughts…

She smiles at me, the awkwardness of the last few days fading a bit—but only a bit—I’m sure aided by the fact that we’re surrounded by my family to help diffuse it. Because Lord knows, it’s not helping that she looks as beautiful as she does right now in those shorts showing off her legs and that tank top that is doing absolutely nothing but drawing my eyes to what I now know to be a stunning pair of tits. I just have to remember that she’s a little sister. Just like Willa.

“I dunno,” Auggie responds. “I’m pretty dangerous with the tongs.”

Errrr…what?!

Brenna lets out a strangled scoff, a horrified look on her face. A sentiment I share. Because apparently my father felt the need to up the awkward. Sweet Jesus.

“Seriously, Dad? Let’s never say that again.”

“What?” He claps the tongs together a couple of times, sending both Brenna and me reeling back. Auggie laughs, realizing that what he said was more than a little weird, holding up his hands in surrender. “At least I’m not Jack Keller, wearing an apron that says I like my pork pulled and butt rubbed.”

This is true. We are all very glad that Auggie has never worn that. Although, I make a mental note that I need to ask my father’s best friend where he got that, and if they make it in T-shirt form. It would be a great addition to my collection.