“My mom makes me do this stupid thing on Thursdays where I have to go sit in a room filled with baby toys. And I’m supposed to be there to talk to some lady, but she smells frickin’ weird and her hair is crispy like curly fries. I don’t really talk to her, so then she makes me draw pictures, which Ihatedoing. It’s stupid.” He throws his hands up.
It takes a bit longer than I’d like to admit to figure out what the hell he’s on about. But when it finally dawns on me, I don’t know how to respond. I was that kid who had to sit in a room with a strange adult, though it was to practice reading, rather than talk or draw pictures. In the long run, it could’ve been beneficial, but it sure felt stupid when I was Jonas’s age.
“Personally, I like to talk to Betty and the horses about what’s going on in my life. Sometimes they smell weird, but they don’t usually repeat the things I tell them.”
Jonas glances down at Betty, who’s dutifully trotting between us.
“Betty’s damn demanding, though. You’ve gotta buy her silence with puppuccinos.”
Jonas chuckles, smoothing putty over the fractures created when I let him down a few moments ago. We crest over the hill, winding our way back to the barn, and I shut my eyes to relish the heat and the speckled orbs of light on the backs of my eyelids with my face to the sun.
• • •
Though Jonas has a way of slowing me down on the job, weekends without him on the ranch are when my workdays really drag. It’s too quiet without his kiddish giggle. Too boring without his smart-aleck comments. And Betty’s in a snippy mood, to boot.
On this particularly sunny Sunday, I can’t help but wonder if he’s fishing with his grandpa or doing something fun with Whit. I hope so, for his sake. I was thankful to have an uncle, brother, and cousins constantly around when I was growing up. They kept me busy—kept me from missing my dad while he was out cowboying for weeks or months at a time. Probably the only reason I’m not riddled with daddy issues.
Shortly after five o’clock, I stroll through the front door of my parents’ home not far from Wells Canyon. Betty rushes past me, eager to get to the kitchen for a scrap of food. With a swift kick, my boots join the pile of shoes gathered near the front door, and I head toward the boisterous laughter coming from the family room. Family dinners have been a thing since I was a kid, and Mom insisted they continue even after my uncle sold his farm and everyone went their separate ways. The crowd has changed over time, with the addition of spousesand kids, but on the first Sunday of every month, there’s food on the table and extended family around it.
“You didnotbring fast food to family dinner,” Mom says, sliding an arm around my waist and pressing the side of her head to my chest. An open palm smacks hard against my gut, momentarily knocking the wind out of me.
With a groan, I rub the tender spot. “Give a working man a break, would ya? Everybody loves chicken nuggets, anyway. We can put them on a fancy plate.”
“Nuggets?” my younger brother, Beau, shouts from the iPad propped up on the fireplace mantel. I can’t keep track of where in the world he and his girlfriend are; they’re touring around playing country music. He’s seen more of the world in the few months they’ve been together than I’ve ever seen on television.
I reply, “So fresh there’s still steam coming off ’em, too.”
The second the box opens, Betty’s sitting on my feet with anticipatory drool hanging from her lip. I gently shoo her away in order to get close to the camera, a nugget pinched between my fingertips. A swirling trail of hot air obscures my brother’s face, and when it clears, I can see him salivating thousands of miles away.
“Here, I’ll give you one.” I hold the nugget up to the camera, and Beau goes along with a few pretend bites while his girlfriend laughs at him in the background.
“Fucking delicious,” he mutters, doing a pretty good impression of somebody talking with their mouth full.
“You’re an idiot.” I pop the chicken nugget into my mouth. Regret seeps from my burning taste buds, and I breathe in and out rapidly to cool things off before I spontaneously combust.
Cackling, Beau calls me an idiot at the same time somebody claps a hand against my back, sending me reeling forward with a sputtering cough. Betty’s on top of the mess before Mom has the chance to see it littered across her carpet.
“How’s the ranch treating you?” Uncle Chuck asks.
Once I’m through the coughing fit induced by the chicken caught in my throat, I brush a couple tears from under my eyes and choke out a “Good.”
“Good, good. No secret talent that’s gonna take you out touring around the world, making a ton of money like your brother?”
“None that I know of yet.”
“Damn, too bad. Was hoping between the two of you, you’d fund my retirement. You owe me winters in Florida for basically raising your asses while my brother was out gallivanting around the damn country.”
Though he did a hell of a lot more than any other man did for me and Beau, it’s a bit of a stretch to say he raised us. That was Mom. But Dad’s sitting in a recliner not quite ten feet away, so Chuck’s clearly trying to get under his skin.Brother shit.I get it.
“Well, crap.” I suck my teeth, pointing to my brother on the screen. “Beau better get it together, because I was counting on him for winters in Florida, too.”
“Neither one of you would last a day in the heat.” Beau takes a bite of something crunchy, and I squint to see what.
“It’s dinnertime and you’re eating Oreos? Mom’s gonna whup your ass.” I give him a tsk-tsk with a wag of my finger before carrying on to the kitchen, ignoring his argument that it’s not dinnertime where he is.
The small kitchen smells overwhelmingly like homemade bread, as per usual. My mom missed her calling as a world-class chef, and we’re the lucky bastards who reap the benefits of her skill in the kitchen. Although my parents only moved to this house a few years ago, if I ever win the lottery, I’ll buy my mom a new place with a kitchen four times this size and give her all the kitchen gadgets she could ever need. It’s the least she deserves.
My stomach’s rumbling and the singular chicken nuggetisn’t cutting it. So I immediately grab a bread knife and home in on a loaf sitting unattended—seemingly still warm, even.
