7:27 p.m.
Lincoln:
Why did you hang up on me, asshole?
I sent him the picture of myself glaring at him in reply.
Atlas:
Team charity thing in Portland. Just like last year. Just like next year. Just like I put in the fucking calendar.
Declan:
Am I supposed to be impressed that you jetted off somewhere in your $10k tux?
Atlas:
Linc needs you at the bar or to check on Mom. Your pick.
Declan:
I’m busy
I ground my molars, biting back the string of curses I wanted to release. How my brothers still acted like fucking children even though they were all in their thirties was a goddamn mystery.
Atlas:
Unbusy yourself, shithead. I’m four hours away and can’t exactly pop over.
Lincoln:
Guess it’ll forever remain a mystery why I didn’t call Dec first.
Declan:
One of you assholes fill me in on what’s going on.
Lincoln:
Mom Situation
Declan:
Dire or standard?
Lincoln:
Anyone’s guess. Her faucet’s been dripping. Instead of waiting for one of us to handle it, she started watching YouTube videos. She’s attempting to be her own plumber.
“Motherfucker,” I muttered. I began typing out a reply when another text notification popped up, this time from the woman in question. I clicked over to the thread with just her and me.
Mom:
I know your brother has sent out the bat signal or whatever, but I’m FINE. I’m a fully grown, independent woman and don’t need my sons to come to my rescue all the time. Have fun at your gala! And send me pictures!!! I’ll take care of this myself, no need to worry. These videos are very informative!
Atlas:
Mom. Just leave it alone for now. Don’t touch anything.
