Page 83 of Five Brothers

“Easy for you to say when it’s someone else’s kid.”

I pause, thinking about that one. “Fair enough,” I tell him. “We’ll pick up this conversation again when it’s my child.”

“Deal.”

Although entirely different situations, he’s coming from the same place my mother is. They want the best opportunities for their children, but the difference is, my mother is willing to do—or force me to do—whatever it takes to ensure it.

Not sure she would’ve let me go to college, even if my dad hadn’t taken all the money.

And I’m not sure I would’ve gone either way.

I want to work, but just as a means to enjoy my life. To pay for trips to the drive-in with Mars and Paisleigh, and big meals with family and friends, and cute clothes that keep my husband’s eyes all over me.

And helping those around me who need it.

College would be a waste of money. At least right now. I have no desire for a career.

Iris bursts through the back door, breathing hard. “Can someone help me in the bar, please?” she whines, pulling bags of mixed nuts off the rack and piling them in her arms. “The Torreses arecoming in with a shitload of people. I’m getting tables together now, but I’ll need help taking orders.”

Santos looks through the warmer, probably trying to see who else is still here, because I’ve already worked a double shift.

I debate for a split second, but then I say, “I can stick around for a little while longer.”

Guilt hits me, but I push it aside. The kids are fine. My mom raised the three of us so far without any deaths. I’ll only be a couple more hours.

Iris smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. Please hurry.”

I tap out a text to Mars.Working a little longer. Text if there’s a problem.

And I stand up to follow her, but Santos pushes a brown bag into my chest. “Take this over first.”

I grab hold of Macon’s dinner, still not having told Mariette that he almost never eats it.

But yet … he continues to let her send it.

Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I push up the sleeves of my black hoodie and walk out of the restaurant, seeing the glow of the garage lights down the lane.

I haven’t seen Macon all day, and I don’t see the boys’ trucks out front, either. It’s better when Army or Trace is in the garage with him. I hate being alone with him. He doesn’t like me.

Everyone else likes me.

But when I veer right, into the garage, I see the hood of my car up, a work light hanging inside, and a Bluetooth speaker on a shelf playing an alternate rendition of Nirvana’s “Something in the Way.”

But there’s no one here.

“Hello?” I inch in, looking around the car for legs. The door to the kitchen is open, and I call out again. “Hello?”

But he’s not in earshot. I reach out, setting the bag down on his worktable, but then I hear a cry in the distance.“Please!”

I stop, some muffled sobs pricking my ears.

“No!” the man wails again.

The voice doesn’t sound familiar.

I jerk my eyes to the back door of the garage, seeing that it hangs open just slightly.

Keeping my feet light and quiet, I head for the back of the shop. “Please, just let me out!”