I know my sister loves him, but his small dick energy has been the only part of his personality growing in the past year or two.
And knowing that he’s being a dick because he doesn’t like that I’m paying for the wedding doesn’t help.
Dude should be fucking grateful. Not threatening to tell the whole town where I got the money if I breathe a word about covering everything here.
Which I wouldn’t do anyway.
I grit my teeth while I force a smile at the woman. “Only time I was ever on parole was for joyriding a go-kart down Main Street at three in the morning in my underwear when I was nineteen.”
Chandler stiffens.
“Too much snow,” I continue. “Crashed into the revered statue of Snaggletooth the Gold Miner and put a chip in his pickax.”
Fun night. Sneaking beers with all of my friends, some back in town after their first semester of college, the rest of us enjoying a Friday night off after long work weeks at minimum wage jobs that our parents all hoped were temporary until we found something bigger to do with our lives.
Chandler was there.
Right up in the thick of it.
Right up in the thick of ratting everyone out to the cops too. Always assumed he thought the rest of us were too drunk to remember what really happened.
But I remembered. I wasn’t too drunk.
Not that the cops believed me.
Why would they? It’s the rules. Your family’s standing in the community makes a difference in how you’re treated and how much you’re believed, and Chandler’s family brewed the juice that made Snaggletooth Creek run, while my family collected roadkill for taxidermy during the lean times when hunters weren’t bringing in deer and elk and bears and lions.
Didn’t break my heart when Emma and Chandler split up not long after they went back to their respective colleges after that winter break.
And jail wasn’t so bad.
Did me a favor in the end, honestly.
Still would’ve preferred if Emma hadn’t gotten right back together with Chandler when they both moved home after college though.
The woman glances between us, one of her eyes crinkling a little more than the other.
Or maybe it’s a trick of the lamps.
“I—I must be thinking of someone else,” she finally says in her thick twangy accent. “Thank you for your time.”
“Enjoy your night,” I call after her rapidly retreating backside.
Not the first time Chandler’s cock-blocked me.
Don’t mind being cock-blocked, truth be told.
Not really interested in the Southern single mom.
My dick’s too hung up on someoneelse.
But I do care that Chandler’s rounding on me and glaring like I’m the problem.
I know I’m not the problem, and if he thinks he can channel making me feel like a high school fuckup, he’s dead wrong.
“What did you hear?” he growls.
Okay,triesto growl. Dude’s got a weak growl. Goes higher-pitched than he means to. It hasn’t worked on me since about fifth grade, when I asked him if the llama fromThe Emperor’s New Groovewas his daddy.
