All four of them turn to look at me. At my bedhead. At my leggings. At the T-shirt I’m swimming in—Logan’s T-shirt—that fits more like a dress than a shirt.
“Ah,” Dad says flatly.
“Would you believe,” Logan tries, his voice cracking slightly, “that I took it off while also doing yoga?”
“No,” all three of my brothers say in unison.
My father sighs heavily and walks past all of them to set the cake on my kitchen counter.
“Someone get the man a shirt,” he says. “And put on some coffee. It’s too early for whatever this is.”
“I’ll just—” Logan gestures vaguely toward my bedroom, still trying to cover his chest. “Shirt. I’ll get a shirt.”
I mouth an apology at him as my family tramples through the living room, their noise ricocheting off every surface like a flock of under-caffeinated pterodactyls. It’s always like this—Greene Home Invasion Protocol. There’s no stopping it. You either endure or perish.
Within seconds, Mike is inspecting my bookshelf (“Are you really reading Ulysses again, or is it just for aesthetics?”), Chris is yanking open my fridge and making a disgusted noise (“Do you have anything that isn’t LaCroix and string cheese?”), and Tony—God bless Tony—is sniffing the ice cream cake as if determining whether ‘Cookies N’ Cream’ can mask the taste of abject humiliation.
My dad just stands in the kitchen, staring at me through the mirror-bright reflection of the countertop, his jaw set in that way that means he’s about to launch into a Serious Father Talk at exactly the wrong moment.
Before he can say anything, Logan emerges back into the living room wearing my favorite oversized tee. It’s hot pink, fitted across his shoulders in a way the shirt was never intended to fit, with bold white letters that read ‘GIRLS IN STEM DO IT WITH MORE PRECISION.’
The silence lasts approximately two seconds.
Then all three of my brothers burst out laughing.
“I didn’t—” Logan looks down, reads the shirt, and closes his eyes like he’s praying for the floor to swallow him. “I just grabbed the first thing that looked like it’d fit.”
“No, no, keep it on,” Tony wheezes, pulling out his phone. “This is going on the photo wall at home.”
“There will be no photo,” I say, snatching at the phone while he holds it out of my reach.
“There’s always a photo, Aud.” Mike is wiping tears from his eyes. “Always.”
Dad, to his credit, just shakes his head and starts opening cabinets in search of coffee filters. “At least it fits him,” he mutters. “Sort of.”
Ten minutes later, we’re all crammed around my small dining table, eating ice cream cake for breakfast while my brothers interrogate Logan with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“So.” Mike leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand. “You’re in tech. You must be pretty rich.”
“Software engineer,” Logan corrects. “And…sorta.”
“Sorta,” Tony repeats. “Right. Incidentally, how many zeros are in your bank account?”
“Tony.” I kick him under the table.
“What? It’s a fair question. I want to know if he can support you in the manner to which you should become accustomed.”
“I don’t need anyone to support me?—”
“She really doesn’t,” Logan says. “Audrey’s the most capable person I’ve ever met. I’m fairly certain she could run a small country if she wanted to. But if it helps, I do. Have enough zeros, that is.”
My brothers go quiet. It’s not the answer they expected—no deflection, no false modesty, just genuine admiration and facts.
“Huh.” Chris tilts his head, studying Logan with new interest. “OK, I like him.”
“You don’t get to decide if you like him,” I protest.
“Too late. Decision made. Man just said you can do it on your own, but he’s also happy to support you.” Chris reaches across the table to shake Logan’s hand. “Welcome to the family, tech nerd. Don’t fuck it up.”
