“Withnofuckin’ warnin’.” My hands calmly slide into my black and maroon plaid dress pants. “Who died?”
“Pretty sure Grams wasgonnakill him,” Dubs mirthfully retorts, “but I suggested relocation as an alternative.”
“Grams would’ve been fine in prison,” I playfully poke.
“Oh yeah, that old coot would’ve been runnin’ the place before the weekend hit,” my best friend quickly agrees. “Butto saveusfrom visitin’ herthere…I brought this juvenile delinquenthere.”
There’s no stopping my eyebrow from quirking. “Juvenile delinquent?”
When Bronny doesn’t confirm nor deny the accusation, I simply nod, take a step back, and usher in the surprise visitors that have me mentally begging Aretha to say a little prayer for me too.
Because here’s the truth of this faceoff.
If I try to reschedule this date, the woman I know with every fiber of my being isminewill take it as a sign that we’renotmeant to be.
And I can’t have her thinking that.
Not when us keeping our distance already has two points on the board threatening me with a complete relationship shutout.
The three of us head for my open kitchen, passing framed photos of my family from back home, my hockey family – past and present – and some classic album covers from various artists I enjoy.
As soon as we enter the freshly cleaned space – I wanted everything perfect just in case we ended up back at my place tonight – I point to the barstool chairs at the large, marble island. “Sit.”
Bronny immediately slinks over, shucks off his backpack, and slumps into a seat.
“Explain.”
“He-”
“Not you, Dubs.” I position myself directly across from my younger, half-bother and plant my palms firmly on the countertop. “You, Bronson.”
“I hate when you call me Bronson,” he mumbles in a whine, brown eyes finally finding my hazel. “You sound like Mom.”
“Maybe Ishouldsound more like Mom orbemore like Mom because somethin’ tells me if she were still around your ass wouldn’t be in trouble every other fuckin’ period.”
I’m lucky in comparison.
I lost her in the middle of the one year I actually went to college.
He lost her in the middle of elementary school.
“Sing, Bronson,” is demanded in a deeper, more authoritative tone. “Sing like this isThe Voiceand your ass is one flat note away from bein’ eliminated.”
“Alright,” he defeatedly begins, lightly folding his hands together in front of him. “You remember the girl I was Snappin’ you about yesterday?”
“Julliard.”
“That’s a place,” Dubs interjects while heading for the stainless-steel fridge.
“It’s also a person,” I retort without breaking eye contact with Bronny. “And one I feel he did somethin’ super fuckin’ stupid to try and impress.”
“Gooooaallllll,” my best friend theatrically calls out from behind me.
“She was the one who invited me to the pool party except…it wasn’t…jus’ a pool…party?”
“Why did that sentence end in a question?”
“It was more of…like uh…a tryout.”
