Page 93 of The Way We Touch
“He said I must’ve got a seed. Then he gave me ice cream.”
I hug her, kissing her soft cheek. “Uncle Craig probably thought you were a jalapeño expert since you already bit one.”
“I’m not.” Her eyes are huge.
Zane walks up behind Jack, and I stand to give him a hug. “Did you do okay by yourself this weekend?”
“The house was so quiet. I actually got some sleep.”
He’s teasing, but I pinch his side. “I moved downstairs so I wouldn’t disturb you.”
“We need better soundproofing on those old walls.”
Craig joins us, placing a platter of beers on the table and a root beer float for Kimmie. “Who are we supposed to cheer for tonight?”
I cringe, clutching the sides of my hair. “I can’t believe we have to watch all three of them play.” My brother Hendrix is a tight end for the Los Angeles Tigers. “The only good part is they’re all on offense, so they won’t face each other.”
“Where’s Allie?” Craig walks over to lean on the bar beside me.
“Austin has an exam tomorrow, so she’s home with him. Hey, did a little guy stop in here today?”
He shakes his head. “Why?”
“I ran into this man asking about spicy food and Coyote Ugly dancing.”
“You’re infamous.” Zane taps my shoulder. “Which means more than famous.”
“Not me.” I hold up my hands. “You know I don’t get on the bar.”
“You got on the bar when Logan was here.” Craig gives me the side-eye, and heat flushes my belly at the memory.
Yes, I did…
Jack steps up to take a beer and Kimmie’s dessert drink. She’ll be asleep before halftime, but we have a little palette made up for her in one of the booths. I’d hold her, but I have to take my place behind the column in the center of the dining room, a safe distance from the large screens.
The Monday Night Football music blasts through the room, and my heart jumps in my chest. Colorful lights flash on the screen, and the commentators excitedly launch into where things stand mid-way through the season.
Logan’s face appears on the screen, and my chest squeezes. Then Hendrix’s face is right beside him on a split screen.
They talk about their stats in excited voices and who’s in the running for the Big Game, and I rest my cheek against my old friend the column.
Last week, I pulled a chair over here, and Craig brought me beer and snacks while I did my best to tune out the clashing of helmets and the loud grunts of the players. Oh, and don’t forget the nonstop instant replays.
“He’s such a showboat,” Jack shakes his head at a clip of Hendrix dancing in the end zone after a score. “They should make him be a team captain for a year, show some responsibility.”
“You can’t force a square peg into a round hole,” Zane replies calmly.
I think about the two of them, the oldest of our clan, and how they sit and talk like I imagine our parents might. Jack is the grumpy oldest, while Zane is more patient.
Garrett was the youngest for so long, his over-the-top personality is cemented. Then Hendrix arrived, followed eighteen months later by me.
“Dylan, I know you’re cheering for Logan,” Jack notes. “Zane will cheer for Garrett, and I’ll root for Hendrix.”
He acts grumpy, but Jack was always sweet to us younger ones. It’s just like I told Allie—he’s hard on the outside, but a total alpha-roll in the middle.
“Hello?” Craig pipes up. “Way to leave out Thomas and me.”
“Nobody tells Thomas what to do.” Zane chuckles, taking a sip of beer.