Page 100 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Hank’s eyes light up. “The gator.”

Wayne rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop listening.

So I launch into it. The rest stop outside Lafayette. The vending machine that ate my dollar and then had the audacity to hum at me. The old man in a folding chair who insisted on showing me photos of his prize-winning crawfish boil setup like it was a newborn grandchild. And the gator, big as a busted canoe, sunning itself by a drainage ditch like it paid property taxes and chaired the HOA.

By the time I’m done, Hank’s laughing loud enough to scare birds off the roof.

Fletcher’s smiling openly now.

Even Wayne’s mouth has curved, just slightly.

That’s better.

I push off the bench and wander closer to the lift, eyeing the engine Wayne’s pretending not to wrestle with.

“You gonna glare at it until it fixes itself?” I ask mildly.

He shoots me a look. “You volunteering?”

“I’m retired from manual labor,” I say solemnly. “Strictly advisory.”

Hank snorts.

Fletcher moves around the bench to grab a rag, passing close to Wayne. Their shoulders almost brush.

Neither one comments or even looks at the other.

Which is odd, considering these two usually operate as a well-oiled machine. Quiet understanding. Shared rhythm.

Now it’s as if someone shifted a gear half a notch.

I lean back, watching them both while pretending I’m studying a spark plug.

“You boys get in a fistfight I missed?” I ask casually.

Hank freezes mid-wipe.

Wayne stiffens.

Fletcher doesn’t even look up. “Nope.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmur.

Wayne takes a long sip of coffee. “We’re fine.”

The way he says it makes Hank glance at me.

I just smile pleasantly.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I reply. “Just seems like you’re conductin’ separate orchestras over there.”

Fletcher’s jaw ticks.

Wayne sets his mug down a little harder than necessary.

Ah.

There’s a story here.