I don’t overthink my reply, but once it’s written and my thumb is hovering over the screen, I chicken out. I stare at it for far too long, second-guessing if honesty really is the best policy when it comes to Wes. If I’m giving him too much power, too much room to hurt me all over again.
I don’t send the text. I also don’t delete it. I just lock my phone and let it clatter onto the counter before turning my focus to the dinner I promised my brothers.
“What’s with theflowers?” Sam plunks a six-pack on my counter and stares at the pink blooms like they’re crime scene evidence.
Eric grabs one of Sam’s beers, ignores our brother’s protest, and uses the bottle opener on his keys to pop the top before declaring themfuckup flowers.
“Definitely fuckup flowers,” Sam agrees. Both of them turn to me with expectant faces.
“Who fucked up?” Eric drops his keys on the counter and pokes at the flowers, probably looking for the card I already hid in my office. “You broke up with that Wes guy, right? Kind of a shame. He seemed solid.”
“Solid?” I gape at my brother, who hasn’t liked a single man I’ve dated. “Since when are you a fan of Wes?”
Eric and Sam exchange a long look. “What did he do?” Sam grabs a beer of his own and then ducks around me to inhale the spicy scent wafting from the meat sizzling on the stove. “Can you show Cassie how to make your recipe?”
I shove him away and flip the chicken over. “If you don’tlike the way she does it, you can always make them yourself. Just be grateful she’s willing to cook for your sorry ass.”
“She loves my ass.” Sam smacks his own butt with nauseating pride. “Squats, baby.”
Making a retching noise, I take the beer Eric offers and down several long gulps. “I donotwant to hear about your ass, Sam.”
“That’s fine,” Eric says, a little too cheerful for how his eyes are narrowed on the bouquet. “You can tell us about what Wes did that he’s sending you flowers weeks after you dumpedhisass.”
Time to steer the conversation away from my disastrous love life. “If you’re done talking about asses, I was going to tell you that I won the cover contest.”
“Wait, really?” Eric asks at the same time Sam says, “Are you serious? That’s awesome!”
“Yeah. Found out a few hours ago.”
“Well, congrats! You going to show us the photo that won?” Eric leans against the counter while he sips his beer and throws a look of exaggerated hurt at Sam. “She tells us nothing. Her own brothers, and we’re the last to know.”
“Give me that,” Sam demands, taking the tongs out of my hand. “Go get your laptop. We want to see the photo. And then I want to know why you look so miserable if you won this contest. Also, why did I not know that you broke up with that guy?”
“Because you’ve had your head so far up Cassie’s pus—”
“You’re just jealous. Maybe if you took a shower once in a—”
“I own my own business, fuckface. You’re the one working yourself to death for some guy in a suit. You think—”
“I think you’re both idiots,” I interrupt, snatching back thetongs before launching into a brief recap of my fight and subsequent breakup with Wes. When I’m done, they both stare at me, Sam’s expression thoughtful, while Eric is looking at me like I’m the idiot.
“Theyarefuckup flowers,” Sam says slowly. He cocks his head to the side, glancing between me and Eric. “But dude put some effort into it.”
I grab the chicken out of the pan and drop it onto a waiting cutting board before reaching for my knife. “What is this, some sort of birds-of-a-feather-fuck-up-together nonsense? Been to the florist recently yourself?”
“Of course he has,” Eric says before Sam can defend himself. “So, look, I’m going to say a thing, and you’re probably going to hate it, but if you kick me out, I’m taking tacos with me.” He pauses, glances at the knife I’m now using to chop up the chicken, and takes two steps back while Sam snickers. “Wes fucked up. Complete fumble on his part. But he also told you he was going to fix it, and from what you said, that’s exactly what he did. No one is perfect. I think it says a lot about the guy that he took responsibility. And he plainly still cares about you or he wouldn’t be sending serious-effort flowers. Those didn’t come from a grocery store.”
“Really? You too?”
Eric holds up his palms and takes another step back. “You think you can put the knife down? You’re kind of scary right now.”
Rolling my eyes, I finish chopping the last two pieces of chicken and set the knife aside. And then I finally put words to the one fear I haven’t been able to get past.
“How many times have Mom’s losers screwed up and triedto make up for it with flowers or some other over-the-top gift? How do I know this isn’t just the start of a pattern I want nothing to do with?”
“You don’t.” Sam sets down his beer. He comes closer, his palms gentle on my biceps. “But you’re not Mom, Sloane.”
“And Wes isn’t some barfly loser like the guys she always picks,” Eric adds. “None of those wastes of life have ever stood up for her outside of an excuse to throw hands, never mind taken care of her when she’s been sick. It’s not the same.”
