While humming a very familiar melody.
That’s “When You See Me.”
An old Bro Code song.
One that we never released as a single.
One I helped write.
And I’m reasonably certain she doesn’t even realize she’s humming it.
There’s a bowl of cinnamon sugar popcorn within reach for her, and I’ve happily reprinted three journal pages after she smudged them with sugary-cinnamony-buttery hands.
I like taking care of Sloane.
And I’m about done denying it to myself.
Until I pulled her into this mess—and I did, regardless of how much she might say she brought it on herself with the fake boyfriend story she fed her grandmother—every time I saw her, she was happy.
I want to do what I can to put the smile back on her face. To give her her laughter back.
Everyone deserves to be happy.
She suddenly sits up with a gasp. “How did I not see this?”
I’ve showered, changed into jeans and a long-sleeve thermal undershirt, and pulled a beanie over my hair, which doesn’t help me feel any less naked, but it’s what I’ve got.
I made the mistake of looking in the mirror at my hair and discovered I do, in fact, have vanity left.
And it’s highly offended.
That’s all I’m saying about my hair, and it’s zero shade to Sloane.
She did what she had to do.
I squat next to her. “See what?”
She wrinkles her nose. “You don’t even have to look closely. It’s right here. And here.And here. He talks about his chicken on every page.Every page.”
“And?”
“There’s a Chicken Rock on that map that came from Sarcasm. I always thought it was what Thorny would’ve named a pet chicken or where his chickens roosted if he got chickens—did people have chickens back in the late 1700s and early 1800s?”
“Chickens are dinosaurs.”
“Oh. Right. Right. We’ve had chickens forever. But he only talks about his chicken. One chicken. And look. Right here. He says all it does is stare to the south. Who has only one chicken? And what chicken spends its entire life staring to the south?” She checks her watch, then winces. “Can’t see Pop, so I can’t go get the actual journal until morning. At least tomorrow’s not Tuesday.”
“What happens Tuesday?”
She snorts. “Like you don’t know. You know everything.”
“Do I want to know what happens on Tuesdays?”
“Pop and Nana have sex in the shower every Tuesday morning, so no one sees them until at least noon. Apparently it’s getting harder as they get older, but they still do it.”
I breathe through the mental image. I did not, in fact, want to know what happens on Tuesdays.
Also, thinking about anyone having sex makes me picture Sloane naked.
