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It’s a blessing and a curse, the things I’m good at.
What I’m not good at are the things that count: guys, relationships, emotions, and big brothers. I smell like the inside of a barrel of grease, I need a shower, and I am so not in the mood—when I pop my head up from behind the rogue fryer and catch sight of Adrian making his rounds through the crowd. He looks so proud of himself, it makes me instantly annoyed.
Then I notice he’s alone. No Rico. Just his cocky self.
For some reason, that makes me even more mad. Has he already dumped the guy off like used trash? With the weekend over, that’s no doubt what he’s done, crushing one more heart—except this one is Jonah’s best friend. I can’t stand the cocky look on Adrian’s face as he drinks in the attention of all the other single men here, who are likely horny and happy that Adrian’s on the hunt again. He scopes the crowd like he’s picking out the prize he wants after winning another round of whack-a-mole at the fair. I don’t need an explanation from him; I know it already.
And I’m furious about it.
Until Adrian glances my way.
I duck. I think the bastard saw me. I quickly return to tinkering with the fryer, not wishing to give my brother even the satisfaction of my glare.
“Are you really seeing someone?” asks Aaron over my shoulder as he watches me work.
I wipe sweat off my forehead, then worry I just left a smear of grease there. “Just let me know if my brother starts coming over here, will you?”
“If you’re seeing someone, that’s not something to shrug off. I gotta know.”
I smirk over my shoulder at him. “Don’t go pretending we’re still friends, Aaron, acting like you know me.”
“But I do know you. And we are friends.”
“Don’t you remember it was me who got you fired from the bakery?”
“It wasn’t you, not really. You just happened to be the person Malik asked about those muffins, and it was good you didn’t lie to him. Malik can always sniff out a liar. And hey, why the fuck do salt and sugar have to look the same, anyway? That’s messed up!”
I have to laugh. “You’re something else, Aaron.”
“Uh … something’s happening.”
“My brother’s coming over?”
“No. Inside. Wait.” He squints. “Is that … your mom?”
I lift my head over the machine to get a look. Through the back windows, a small crowd has formed inside, and in its heart stand two people. One is my mom.
And the other … “Oh, fuck me.” I abandon the fryer at once and hurry toward the house, leaving Aaron all alone.
It’s worse than I thought. The moment I’m inside, my mom’s shouting is all I hear through the crowd, though I can’t make out what it’s about. I push my way to the front and emerge right by her side.
In front of us stands my dad, whom I haven’t seen in a very long time. Years, probably. I don’t even know how many. He has my brother’s face and proud posture, and even stands at around Adrian’s height, but without all the muscles. He has a thick gray beard, trimmed close. He’s dressed down in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, accessorized by a gaudy, luxurious gold wristwatch, like he’s some tacky businessman on vacation to a literal island. Honestly, I barely recognize him except for his eyes, which are the one thing I inherited from him—other than the music.
When I’m by my mom’s side, I realize she isn’t yelling at him at all.
She’s laughing.
“Kent, thank god you’re here,” says my dad over her laughter. “Eden is … clearly too drunk to even have a civil conversation with anyone. Is something else in her cup other than wine? Oxy? Coke? Psychotropic drugs, maybe? The woman’s nuts.”
“Nuts,” says my mother, coming out of her laughter, her eyes watery. “I’m nuts. Did you hear that, Kent? Nuts. I get ditched by my high school sweetheart because he felt like the fresh, salty air was suffocating him like a great big salty anaconda squeezing around his neck—his words, not mine—and I’m the one who’s nuts.” Her voice carries no bitterness or resentment at all; she is purely amused and light, nearly downright giddy. “Chuck, why are you here?”
My dad rolls his eyes, like that’s the most ridiculous question. “Eden, I already told you. To congratulate Marty and celebrate the twenty-year—”
She bursts into laughter again.
He sighs and spreads his hands, at a loss. He turns to me. “Kent, what am I supposed to do here? Ignore her? Walk away? I’m trying to be civil, and your mother’s … being immature and delirious.”
To the tune of my cackling mother—who is laughing so hard, you’d think she was being physically tickled—I face my father. “She asked you a question, and I think it’s a fair question that deserves a fair answer.”
