“Cozy,” she says with mock enthusiasm.
I laugh. “Right, okay.” My thumb strokes her leg. “You’re driving. Take us home.”
27
SAWYER
Jamie and I are plastered together in my twin bed, and I’m laughing at his description of cleaning fish for the first time.
“Ma was showing us, but with twenty fish in the cooler and it being late, she’s not messing about. She gets going and scales are flying everywhere and hitting us on the heads, and my wee brother Jude starts yelling. ‘Fish rain. No! Stop getting on my head, fishy.’ He climbs under the wood table for cover. As though we’re under fire.” Jamie chuckles. “I’m a clever lad, so I see an opportunity to avoid cleaning up the gruesome fish guts. I say, ‘I’ll get him, Ma.’ Once I get under the table though, Jude and I start discussing what sweets we’re going to eat as a reward for helping.”
“How old were you guys?”
“I don’t know. Four and three, I reckon. We were just a year and a half apart.”
“Under five, though? And she gave you a knife to clean fish?”
“Nah, she was showing us the motion one at a time with her hand over each of ours. Until she got impatient. Then, what we were supposed to be doing was throwing away the remains and wrapping the cleaned fish in butcher paper. Usually she had the girls out there, not us. They were older and much more help, as you’d imagine. But Jude and I were so keen on fishing, and I think Ma reckoned she’d soon have three times as many fish to scale or fillet and wasn’t having it. My mom doesn’t actually care for fish the way most of the family does. Imagine you don’t even like fish stew and you have to make a pot of it every week for your greedy family. Along with fish fillets and fish and chips. When the catch was good, we had fish more days than not. That suited my dad and me down to the toes, and we’ve not really changed. You know what my American cousins introduced me to that I could eat every week? Fish tacos. Absolutely brilliant.”
He rises from the bed, flashing his perfect ass, as he grabs a packet of Scottish shortbread cookies from Ash’s nightstand.
“Hey, those aren’t from the dining hall.”
“So?” he says, tearing open the package.
“They’re Ash’s stash, and I don’t know where to get more to replace them. Don’t?—”
Jamie pops a cookie in his mouth and chews. “It’s all right. Just tell her I ate them while reminiscing about my little brother. I could set fire to the beds, and she’d say, ‘Oh, that’s all right, Jamie. No problem.’ She’s the little sister I wish I had. The rest of my sisters put up with zed.”
“You talk about your brother as though…” My voice trails off and I grimace, studying his face for signs I shouldn’t ask. Finally, because he doesn’t change the subject, I say, “Is he gone?”
With a lick of his lips, Jamie nods. His expression clouds for a moment, but he banishes the expression. “Long time now.”
“I thought for a while I had a real brother. But no. So disappointing. I can’t imagine growing up with a sibling and then… I mean I can imagine.” I wince. “But it’s obviously way more heartbreaking in your case.”
Desperately wanting to know what happened to his little brother, I bite my tongue to keep myself from asking for details. I, of all people, know that it’s better not to ask intrusive personal questions.
After eating another cookie, Jamie holds out the packet to me in offering. I shake my head.
“Go ahead if you’d like one. I’ll get Ash some more.”
“I don’t usually eat cookies for breakfast.”
“No? Missed opportunity. Life is short, Sauce.” The mock gravity in his tone makes me smile. “Explain about the brother you thought you had. How does that work?”
“Weirdly.” I blow out a breath. “I don’t usually talk about it.” Holding my breath, I wait for him to let it pass. Which is what I want him to do. I think.
He sits on the side of the bed and finishes off the cookies before pitching the wrapper into the trash. When he looks at me, there’s a speculative expression on his face. “You don’t need to speak about it if you’d rather not. But if you want to say something, go ahead. I can keep it a secret if that’s what you’d like.”
Chewing on my lower lip, I shrug. “When I was young, there was a guy and a little boy living with us for a while. The little boy was a year or two older than me, I think. Someone must have joked that he was my brother or something.”
“When was this?”
“I must’ve been about two or three when they moved in.”
“This was before your mother married Allendale? So, he’s not your real dad then?”
Pressing my lips between my teeth, I glance at the ceiling, then the window, then Jamie’s chest. “Actually, I’m adopted. My dad’s great, actually. We’re close.”
