I would’ve been way too claustrophobic in a regular-size food truck, and she knew it.
We pulled out the bus seats to make room for the kitchen and painted the whole interior a sunny yellow, leaving the back windows clear but obscuring the front windows with custom-printed static clings featuring family photos from over the years, before and after the fire, so our parents are in some too. We’re grilling burgers and having food fights and doing dishes together.
My oldest little brother brought in someone he knew with a plasma torch to cut the service window.
My middle little brother hooked us up with a friend of his who’d worked in his family’s food truck his entire life and had opinions about the best setup for a kitchen.
My youngest little brother sent memes about food trucks to the group chat.
We covered the rear windows with pictures of family meals.
The table itself is big enough to fit six. It’s an avocado-green Formica table that Daphne found at a thrift store and convinced a friend to paint and cover with resin to protect it, so now the tabletop is a field of flowers where burgers with wings flit about, pollinating everything.
We added it in so we could charge a premium for people who wanted an exclusive, if quirky, experience.
And that table of honor is still occupied by a man I’d like to forget.
He once again holds up the fish on a stick that Hudson gave him right before Mrs. Camille showed up. “And in addition to not falling off, it’s still flaky and delicious. Absolutely marvelous.”
“My dude, you need to get out more,” Daphne tells him.
“Quite right,” he agrees. “What other marvels does this town hold?”
“Cheese curds,” the three of us answer together.
He grimaces, then the bastard does the worst thing he could possibly do.
He cracks up. “You’re rather funny, the lot of you.”
What a weirdo.
Not that I don’t have a sense of humor—I do. Kinda have to, considering all that life’s thrown my way in the past decade.
But the last thing you’d ever expect is for the guy who played—no, wait,wrote and starred in—the most awful show about the most awful people to be so freakinghappy.
And I’d bet even people who liked the show would say the same.
I finish the burger and pass it out the window, and as I straighten back into the bus, another shadow falls over the rear door.
I catch myself mid-eye roll when I realize it’s not another Simon Luckwood-slash-Peter Jones fan.
Ryker, my oldest little brother, fills the doorway as he scowls at Simon. His straight dark hair is in need of a trim, there’s dirt on his cheek, and his boots don’t match, which pretty much tracks for Ryker. He cares more about the plants and animals on his farm than he does about his fashion choices.
He was the only one of my brothers at home when the house caught on fire. The other two were on a campout with friends. While he won’t often say it out loud, I know Ryker still carries guilt and PTSD from everything he saw and went through that night.
“Didn’t do enough damage today?” he says to Simon.
“Erm—” Simon starts as I give Ryker theknock it offsignal.
“I left the farm for this,” Mr. Grumpypants says to me. “I’m gonna give him shit if I want to give him shit.”
“Bro, think fast.” Hudson tosses a fish on a stick, throwing it like it’s a paper airplane, toward Ryker, who stands there with his hands tucked into his overalls and watches the fish hit the ground, then looks back up at Hudson.
“No,” Ryker says.
“But it’sfree fish. And it’s Bea’s fish. And youruinedit.” Hudson staggers with his hand to his heart as though this will be what finally does him in, and I have to actively suppress a smile.
My brothers are the best. We did a good job with them. Mom and Dad and me. I think they’d be proud of me. Ofus.
