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She rolls her eyes. We've always been fire and ice, oil and vinegar.
This is no exception.
Mac clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. “Dad needs you on the crew, Rye, with your head on straight. He counts on you. And you’re making things hard for us at work. The guys were mad on Friday with you hollering about—”
“Hey,” Bartlett says, cutting Mac off, always the peacemaker. “We don't need to do this. I'm sure Rye is just having a rough time, but everything will work out. Let's just eat this amazing food Mom made—”
Graham chuckles. As the brother who's right in the middle, he always seems to find situations funny even when they should be taken more seriously.
“What are you laughing about?” Mac asks him.
Graham groans. “I just think it's funny. Bartlett always wants to put Rye in his place. But Bart's not the oldest. Rye is.”
Mac drops his fork. “Well, if Rye wants to be the oldest, why doesn't he start acting like it?”
“Hey,” Reuben says, off his phone call, stepping in and taking Plum’s hand. “We’re going to take Hijinx out for a walk, that okay, Abby?”
Abby looks over and smiles at Reuben. “Sounds good. Thanks, Plum.”
The adults in the room understand that Reuben is doing his fatherly duty of getting his daughter out of this grown-up conversation, which is really more of a fight.
Part of me wishes Reuben would stay. He's the brother who’s usually on my side. But he always puts his daughter first. Because he's a Rough. He knows what really matters—family.
I know what matters too.
That's why I have this secret. Why I have this problem.
Why everyone at the table thinks I'm a goddamn asshole when really, I'm trying to protect them.
Family comes first.
The last thing I want to do is ruin them by telling them the truth.
“I don't know what you want from me,” I say, defeated. “Just tell me what you want.”
Fig opens her mouth. “I want you to stop being so grumpy. Be the brother I remember. The one who laughed at dinner, who came over just because and told stories all night at the fire pit. I miss him.”
“It’s like we’re walking on eggshells,” Lemon says softly.
“And it’s exhausting, Rye,” Fig says with a half-laugh.
There's a few chuckles at that comment—at the moment, her teenage antics are a bit exhausting themselves. Fig just rolls her eyes, crossing her arms.
“Hey,” Graham says, winking at our little sister. “Don't laugh at Fig for speaking her truth. Even if she’s her usual drama queen.” I know he is trying to lighten the mood—but it’s too late.
“Well, I'm exhausted by this family meeting,” I tell everyone at the table.
I take my plate and carry it into the kitchen. Wanting to be done with this night—done with all of it. Clearly no one in this family is happy with me or the way I've been acting and handling things. Point taken. Understood. I'll go home now and get out of their goddamn hair.
My father, though, meets me in the kitchen. “Son.”
“What?” I turn to him. “You know, I really didn't appreciate that blindside. If you were upset with the way work was going, you could have talked to me.”
“We are all worried about you.”
“I don't know if it was worry in people's voices or if everyone's just sick and tired of me,” I say.
“I think people are sick and tired of you too,” Dad says with a teasing chuckle, running a hand through his beard. “Rye, I don't know what's going on with you. But these last few months, hell, this last year, you're not yourself. I'm worried about you, son.”
