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“Don’t sell yourself short, Summer,” Aunt Violet snaps. “You would have sent that boy running back to his farm with his tail between his legs and his ass peppered with buckshot.”
God, she knows me too well.
“Language, Vi!” Aunt Zinnia scolds.
“Well it’s true. The Millers don’t give away nothing for free. He thinks Summer can be bought just like his daddy and granddaddy when they bullied Dad into selling the back half of the property, remember, Zinnia? Well she isn’t for sale and that’s that.”
I nod my head. That’s right, Cal. Not. For. Sale.
“Do you see a for sale sign on her?” Aunt Zinnia barks.
Aunt Violet rolls her eyes. “That wasn’t literal, Z.”
I raise my hand. “Right here, guys.”
They ignore me. They’ve locked horns like two old bulls, and only bloodshed will break them apart.
Aunt Zinnia huffs as she throws a towel over the cornbread pan and shoves it across the Formica counter. “Fine. I’ll just go throw this out.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Z. We can eat the damned cornbread . . . as dry as I imagine it is.”
Zinnia’s face flushes red. “No, I will not have you saying I sold Summer like some dried up dairy cow. And . . . another thing. I’ll have you know this cornbread is the best I’ve ever made.”
“Oh, you are something else.” Aunt Violet violently stirs the spoon inside her tea. “How the creator decided we were sisters, I’ll never know.”
If only I’d been here when Cal came, this could have all been avoided. I spare a glance at the 12 gauge shotgun propped by the door.
I would have totally peppered his ass.
“Stop,” I order. Both sisters look over at me like they forgot I was still here. “Next time Cal comes, let him bring whatever he wants.”
I won’t be here anyway, I almost add.
The sisters go silent, and I take the moment to check the roasted haunch browning in the oven so they can’t see the hurt in my eyes.
When I’m done, I turn around to Aunt Zinnia wringing her hands in front of me. Her gray eyes shine. “Summer, I’m sorry if I somehow implied—well, you know. With you and Cal’s history, well I shouldn’t have taken anything from him. Not without asking you first.”
After my assault on Cal, I was expelled from school. I thought my aunts were going to murder the principal with their bare hands, but I didn’t blame him; he didn’t stand a chance against the Millers.
Still, they both knew how important graduating was to me . . . if only because, somewhere deep down, I knew my parents would have wanted that. For me to find a job that changes the world for the better.
“No, Aunt Z.” I brush a hand over her shoulder. “I’m glad you did. Otherwise . . .”
My words trail away as we stare at the kids at the counter. Their too-thin arms, the way their collarbones trap the shadows and cheekbones protrude, all of it convinces me she did the right thing.
“I like Cal okay,” Tanner chimes in. The seven-year-old scampers across the floor and tries to grab a square of cornbread, barely ducking Aunt Violet’s swat. “He gives me twizzlers.”
“Cal’s a shithead,” Jane announces loudly, sauntering in beside him.
“You can’t say shithead,” Tanner informs Jane, his blond eyebrows scrunched sternly.
“You just said it,” Jane retorts. “Now go add a quarter to the swear jar, shithead.”
“Both of you shitheads need to pay up,” I order, conjuring priceless laughs from Tanner and Jane.
All of this is pretty pointless when money means nothing—but it’s tradition, after all.
“Enough,” Aunt Violet says. One gray-shot eyebrow lifts high above her forehead, the final warning rattle before she strikes. “Unless this house is a family full of heathens, I expect manners and clean language. Understood?”
