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“Self-awareness is the first step to recovery,” he tosses back as we break apart and he steps behind Mom, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
Mom tilts her head back to greet him with a kiss, and he throws a hand in my face, blocking my view of them just before I hear an exaggerated smooching noise. I roll my eyes, shaking my head while glancing behind them at where my brother and Noah stand in the living room. My chest warms as I watch Easton take a quick peek up at Noah and say something to him that I wish I could hear. Noah has his arms folded across his chest, his posture stiff—uncomfortable—but not closed off. Not to Easton, at least.
I don’t know why, but Noah has let Easton in, at least enough to allow them to be acquaintances, if not slight friends. It was only a few years ago, around the time my brother turned eighteen, that I started to notice the change between them. The sudden conversations they grew to have had me frozen in place the first time I stumbled upon one. There were no sarcastic, harsh words shared but ones of understanding.
Easton has always been more like Noah than me. He’s shy and stone walled, the furthest thing from a people person. Their friendship makes sense, but knowing Noah the way I do . . . I just never saw it coming.
My feet move before I tell them to. The two men glance my way at the same time, their conversation coming to a halt. Easton doesn’t look at me long before he’s pulling his phone out and beginning to type, completely unimpressed with my interruption, but Noah, he doesn’t look away. He holds my stare, even once we’re an arm’s length apart.
“What were you two talking about over here?” I ask, trying my best to sweeten Noah up with a smile.
His biceps flex as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Can’t say.”
“What’s for dinner?” Easton changes the subject, still not looking up from his phone. It’s his number one trick for avoiding conversations with people. He’s been doing it since he was old enough to have a phone.
“You’ve been home all day; you tell me.”
“You’re sassy today,” he mutters.
“Sassyandhangry if Mom and Dad don’t stop making out long enough to feed us.”
That draws my brother’s attention. He looks up at me, a slight grimace making his lips turn downward. “Try still living with them. They get worse as they get older.”
“You could always move out,” Dad throws over his shoulder. He’s separated from Mom now, and I catch the embarrassed flush to her cheeks as she shakes her head at the two of them.
“Don’t be pushing our son out of here too soon. I’m not ready for my nest to be birdless just yet,” she scolds Dad.
“Why would he leave when he could have Mommy and Daddy still do his laundry and clean his bathroom?” I ask with a smirk. Sibling bickering has always been one of my favourite pastimes. Especially because it’s far too easy to rile my brother.
Easton glares at me, finally putting that phone back into his pocket. “I do my own laundry, jackass.”
“But Mom still cleans your bathroom? Does she fold your tighty-whities too? I hope you at least wash your own crusty socks.”
Humour sparks in his stare, and I hear Noah scoff a rough laugh. “You’re hilarious.”
“Thank you, little bro.”
“Can we not speak of your brother’s socks, Tiny?” Mom pleads, nose wrinkled.
“He started it,” I defend myself.
“I did not,” he barks.
“Did so.”
“Guys. You’re both adults now, remember?” Mom groans, hands on her hips.
Dad chuckles, starting to usher all of us toward the dining room. “Let’s eat, guys.”
“Finally,” I groan. Easton flicks the back of my ear and smirks, pushing my shoulder to step in front of me. I ignore him and, with a quick glance behind me, flash an encouraging smile at my best friend.
He’s been here a million times, has come to a million family dinners, but still obviously feels uncomfortable around all of us. It’s written in every tight muscle and harsh line on his face. I hate it. This should feel like a second home to him, my family his.
I linger behind the others and wrap my arm around his waist, leaning against him as we walk. “Are you going to tell me what you and my brother were talking about now?”
“He was asking about you. Wanted to make sure you would be taken care of while we’re gone.”
A smile grows on my face, despite my damn stubbornness at the belief I can take care of myself. “I don’t need to be taken care of. You’ll be busy, anyway. I’m not your responsibility.”
