“Someone owes me twenty,” big brother says. Emery pulls the bill out of the tiny pocket in front of his romper and flings it across the table.
“Just because you’re the only other one of us whose been dumb enough to fall in love. Where is my dear sister-in-law anyway, Warren?”
Warren is suddenly very interested in the condensation on his glass of water. “She doesn’t need to come every weekend.”
Emery opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by the high-pitched scream that fills the room. Much to my horror, it'smyscream.
“Bat!” I scream.
Emery snorts in his glass of wine. Warren looks around, confused, bypassing the flying black creature completely. Ian is blinking owlishly at me.
“Warrennnnn,” it squawks.
Bowen sniffs and rubs circles on my back. He’s definitely trying to hold back a laugh.
The bat lands on Clint’s shoulder; Clint doesn’t even flinch. It takes a whole two seconds to see that it’s not, in fact, a bat. But a half-bald, grayish black parrot of some kind. It has an honest to fucking God eye-patch on. Pirate parrot.
My heart hasn’t even considered recovering when Jo and Zane come in, each carrying a basket of yet more food.
“Gus, Clint’s bodyguard,” Bowen murmurs into my hair before pressing a kiss to my head. Like it’s natural. Normal. Like I wasn't convinced he hated me yesterday. My cheeks flame, and I’ll be annoyed about not being able to fully appreciate the moment later.
Much later, when I’m not watching the pirate bird like it’s a rabid skunk about to spray or attack.
“Warrennnn. Holes.” The way the bird says Warren is nightmare fuel for months to come, and Warren isn’t even my name. The actual Warren doesn’t even flinch. Pretty sure he was just threatened by the bird.
“Don’t mind the bird, honey. He’s old and senile, just like his owner.”
For what feels like the first time since I got here, Clint releases me from his death glare. I watch in real time as his brown eyes melt, and he breaks into a cheesy smile, all for his wife.
“Senile? Jo-bunny, you weren’t saying that last night.”
“I said senile, Clint, not erectile.”
“Here we go,” Emery says, sighing.
“It’s erectile dysfunction, Ma,” Ian supplies. I think the chicken has moved closer to his plate.
“Could we not?” Warren grumbles.
“Hold hands,” Jo demands.
I startle, grabbing onto Bowen’s upturned hand on my right and Ian’s on my left. Ian gives my hand a few quick squeezes and me a smile. “You’re doing so well, man. Haven’t cried or anything yet.”
I gape, but snap my mouth closed when Clint clears his throat.
“To God, the Universe, or whoever the hell blessed me so much in life, thank you. I’ll continue to be confused about ya, but I’ll be thankful until the day I die, you hear? Bring back my one kid, and I’ll even consider reading the big book. Oh, and if the newcomer is bad people, leave me a sign.” He peeks an eye open to look at me, and I quickly slam mine shut. “Amen and all that.”
“Close enough,” Jo says, then claps her hands. “Eat up.”
The air is thick with spice and an assortment of hearty foods. I can even smell a sweet undertone wafting in from the kitchen. Luckily, the Bennet boys seem to be content to leave me be for now. I have a first row seat to the chaos. Emery slyly roasting everyone, Warren dodging conversations about his absent girlfriend. Jo threatening everyone with her spoon at least once. And Zane pipes in only occasionally, choosing to watch the show with laughing eyes instead. There are laughs, scolding, threats.
It’s the loudest, most insane family dynamic I have ever witnessed. The craziest part?
Bowen is right in the middle of it all. Slinging comebacks, roasts of his own. He compliments Jo’s cooking and threatens Gus to cook him over the grill if he keeps threatening everyone with holes.
By the time Jo slides me a second piece of pie, ignoring my weak smile and hands holding my stomach, it hits me.
Bowen wasn’t alone. Not really.
