Hunter had the courtesy to wait until Smith and Finn had at least one swallow of their drinks before he flattened his hands against the edge of the booth and blurted, “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“You who?” Finn asked, head bobbling side to side like he’d made the most amusing joke of all time.
“All of you.” Hunter’s somber expression was enough to suck the amusement right out of Finn, which caused Smith to go tense to my left. I slid my leg over, knocking my shoe against his in a show of silent brotherly solidarity.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Finn muttered.
“No.”
“Just spill it,” I said.
Hunter pursed his lips, shooting me a glare before confessing to his vodka, “We have another brother.”
Finn’s eyes went wide, mouth gaping open, but he was quick to snap it closed. He looked from Hunter to me, then to Smith, and the way his face changed at the sight of our youngest brother had me swiveling to see him as well. Smith looked like he’d just watched a baby deer get shot, the expression on his face one of utter devastation tinged with horror.
“Hey,” I said, squeezing his thigh in what I hoped was a reassuring way. “It’s okay.”
It was easy to forget I’d had this revelation three times before. Smith was the last to come to us. He’d never experienced the grief and confusion—and later, joy—that came from finding out there was another brother to bring into the fold.
“How did you find out?” Finn asked. He’d cleared his throat and downed his vodka, raising his empty glass over his head until the waiter saw him and headed to get a second.
Smith still hadn’t moved, so I kept my hand on his leg, my foot against his.
“His mother died recently. The confession, as it were, was in her will.”
“Must have been nice to not have a mom who was willing to sell you out,” Smith muttered, and all three of us looked at him with varying degrees of concern.
The waiter brought Finn his second drink, which was gone in less than thirty seconds, but he refrained from ordering another. Smith’s drink was untouched, save for his first sip of wine.
“Go on,” I prompted.
“His name is Andrew,” Hunter said, working through the short checklist of information we had about our mystery sibling. “He lives in San Diego. He’s a lawyer.”
“How old is he?” Finn asked, still eyeing Smith.
Our baby brother.
“Twenty-eight,” Hunter said.
Finn groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. He sank into the leather and folded his arms in front of his chest.
“He knows about us,” I said, taking over for my brother who was clearly running on fumes with the adrenaline of the confession wearing off already. “He’s willing to meet with us.”
“What if we don’t want to meet him?” Smith muttered.
I knocked my knee against his. “Why wouldn’t we want to meet him?”
“He’s not…he wasn’t…”
“He wasn’t raised like us,” Finn supplied, unfolding his arms in favor of violently stirring the ice around his empty drink with a cocktail straw.
“That doesn’t change the fact we all share the same blood.”
“The world doesn’t need another Covington,” Finn said.
“Calavert,” Hunter corrected, scratching the side of his nose. “Andrew Neil Calavert.”
Finn immediately pulled out his phone, and I knew my brother well enough to know he was searching for the newest addition to our family on all the social media platforms he had. He found nothing of note, same as me, then dropped his phone face down on the table with a sigh.
