Page 21 of Rhodes

"Night," I say, and get down.

Inside, the porch bulb throws a yellow square across the door. My key slides the deadbolt back smoothly, and I'm through before I catch myself reaching for the light switch as if I already know exactly where it lives.

SEVEN

Rhodes

Over-Restoration: Replacing what could have been repaired, in the belief that new is safer than old. The most common damage done to historic New Orleans houses is not neglect.

"The Pelicans are down six with the third quarter winding out," the announcer says. I can't believe Zion Williamson passed the ball away. He should have shot the goddamned ball. Our one chance to maybe win a game, and he fucking shits the bed. Christ.

I've got my feet up on the arm of the couch, a bag of pretzels on my chest, and I’m watching the game from yesterday even though I know the outcome. My phone buzzes, startling me for a second.

I flip it over to see Deuce's name.

leg day. 2:00. you in, or you gonna cry about it again

I only cry when I have to see your face. You gonna load 495 again and not tell me?

you loaded it, princess

beer after. that place on st. charles

If you're buying.

i bought last time

You bought the dollar beers at The Hole. Not the same thing.

I snort. On screen, somebody drives the lane and gets hammered, no call, and the announcer makes a wounded sound like he took the elbow himself.

2 works. Don't be late. You're always late.

i'm never late, you're just early like an old man

See you at 2:15, then.

The phone dings again before I've got it back down. This time it's Ridge.

Are you around this week?

I look at it longer than five words deserve. It's the third time in two weeks he wants to see me, and he still hasn't said what it is. I'm not going to be the one who asks twice.

Busy week. I've got a book to finish and a paper to write. Senior year is no joke.

You're not too busy to come in and talk to me.

I turn the phone face down on my chest because I'm not in the mood for my oldest brother to tell me what I am.

The pretzel bag crinkles when I set it on my stomach.

Tallulah comes through from the hall, the strap of her bag hitched up over one shoulder. She's got a water bottle in the same hand, same as always. Her hair is pushed back behind her shoulders, still damp at the ends. She doesn't slow down.

"Jo's outside," she says, already angling for the door. "See ya."

"Later," I tell her, and I stay right where I am.

Things are mostly settled now. She's stopped bucking me like a wild horse, and I'm done with my constant second-guessing everything I do and say. We coexist, which is the point. The door opens on a wedge of gray light, then shuts behind her.