The smell of burning is coming from the pan on the stove, where he is frying corn. Now that I’m downstairs, it smells like he’s making chicken stew.
Is Scott cooking my favorite food?
“Hey Jax,” he says brightly.
He can just about manage a smile now, without his wounds splitting open again. The bruise on his eye is turning yellow around the edges, and he’s standing straighter than he has in days.
“I thought it might be nice to make you some food. I wasn’t sure if you were home, and I went up to check on you. You were completely passed out.”
I must look as confused as I feel because he chuckles, flipping the corn in the pan as he scrapes it out onto a plate.
“I just thought I’d cook dinner for once.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s never done that in the twenty-four years we’ve been alive.
“What are you in such a good mood about?” I ask.
“I just feel bad,” he says, his eyes darting around the kitchen and not meeting my gaze. “I’m sorry for causing you all this grief.”
I lower slowly onto one of the plastic stools beside the kitchen island and continue frowning at him as he continues to put the stew together. He’s microwaved some rice, and he pulls it out, grabbing two plates and handing one to me.
“It’s Mom’s recipe.”
Little shit always knows how to get me.
“Thanks,” I say finally. “Smells great.”
I check my watch, but it’s Monday night. Jensons isn’t open today, so neither of us has anywhere to be.
As I watch my brother move about the kitchen, I struggle to remember the last time we sat down together for a meal. More often than not, one of us is working or helping Flynn with something. It’s rare that we have a home-cooked meal, and even rarer that it isn’t me making it.
He carries the pot to the tiny table in the living room, giving me the same bright smile. Something about this isn’t quite right, but I can’t figure out what it is.
“Want jalapeños?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say as he grabs the jar from the refrigerator. “Have you heard any more from Monroe?”
Scott shakes his head. “No work talk tonight. Well, not about that. I haven’t heard from him, and we’ve got time.”
“Scott.”
He holds up a hand. “I’ll deal, Jax. I promise. I just want to have dinner with my baby sister, okay?”
I glower at him. “You aretwo minutesolder than me, jackass.”
He dumps a ladle-full of stew on my plate, and my stomach growls loudly. I am suddenly ravenous, and we both dig into our food as I sprinkle charred corn over the top of mine.
Scott connects his phone to Seb’s beat-up Bluetooth speaker, and gentle music starts playing in the background.
Every few minutes, the ads cut in because he’s too cheap to pay for a subscription, but other than that, this is so nice.
I glance up at him several times throughout the meal. He looks calm and relaxed for the first time in weeks, but instead of reassuring me, it sets my teeth on edge.
By the time I lean back in my chair, I’m so full I could burst, but Scott has barely eaten anything.
“I made dessert, too,” he says, as he rises, taking my plate. I stay still, watching him go into the kitchen, moving about gingerly as he places the plates in the sink. Eventually, he comes back from the fridge with a small but perfectly formed key lime pie.
I stare at it as he slices it up.
