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“When you say killer omelets, it doesn’t actually involve dying does it?” he questioned, the stool dragging on the ground as he set up at the kitchen island.
Placing the eggs, onions, and bell peppers next to the stove, I searched for a frying pan. “Do you really think I’d kill you, brother?”
“That depends.”
“On what exactly?” Pan on the stove, I grabbed the knife and his eyes dropped to it, then back up to my face.
“You tell me.”
Slicing through the onion, I didn’t reply because I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond or go about starting this conversation. The great thing about Neal was sometimes he didn’t have patience.
“Liam, what the hell is going on? Why are you cooking me omelets at one in the morning?”
“My attempt at brotherly bonding.” I grabbed the red pepper.
“Brotherly bonding?”
I didn’t like the way he snorted at that. “What? We are brothers; we can’t bond?”
“Nope.” He fought back a laugh. “Or at least not in a ‘let’s have omelets’ sort of way.”
“I’ve already cut the fucking onions, we’re having omelets.”
“Sure.”
“Goddamn it, Neal…can you just pretend for a second this is normal? That we bloody eat fucking omelets together? Jesus Christ.”
He said nothing else as I chopped, slicing with ease through the tomatoes next, then grabbing a stick of butter.
“Where is the salt?” he questioned, and I could feel him peering over my shoulder.
“I don’t add salt, I add pepper.”
“No salt? What?”
“Yes. No salt. I have enough things giving me high blood pressure, thank you,” I grumbled.
“Not a decent omelet without salt,” he muttered under his breath. When I turned back to him he pretended to whistle as if this was some damned show tune.
Luckily that was his last comment as I prepared everything. I flipped the omelet once over in the pan and then onto his plate before I took the table salt and put it beside him.
“Thank you.” He dumped far too much onto his plate before taking a mouthful. “Not fucking bad.”
“Can you even taste it? It looks like it’s being vacuumed into your mouth.” Watching him eat was always a sight; you’d think he was starving.
Pulling up a chair next him, I picked out my eggs, staring at our reflection in the stainless steel across the island for a second. As always, when it came to muscle, he had me outmatched. He was like a tank. I’d always hated how he towered over me growing up.
“Did you ever feel like Father hated you?” I finally threw it out there, to which he coughed, his face turning red. Rolling my eyes, I handed him a glass of water. “Is the question really that surprising?”
“From you…yeah.” He rubbed his neck. “Did you feel that way?”
“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you. But no, never. I always knew Father loved me.”
“Must be nice.” He hunched over his plate.
“So you did. You felt like Father hated you—”
“Liam, I ate your omelet; will you clue me in to what is going on now?”
