Page 189 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

My brother leans out, one shoulder braced against the frame. Same dark blond hair as me, though his has less gray in it because life has apparently chosen favorites. Same broad shoulders. Same crooked half grin when he’s about to talk shit.

“Well,” he drawls. “Look who finally remembered he has relatives.”

I point at him. “You got uglier.”

“Road must be affecting your eyesight.”

“Or maybe you just got uglier.”

He snorts and steps aside so I can come in.

The house smells of garlic, black pepper, and whatever Dad’s got cooking in a pan, probably hot enough to qualify as a fire hazard. It’s familiar enough that my chest goes a little soft before I can help it.

“Rex?” Dad calls from the kitchen. “That you?”

“No, sir,” I call back, dropping my duffel by the wall. “Just an extremely handsome drifter robbing the place.”

Dad appears in the doorway with a dish towel over one shoulder and gives me a look that says he’s unimpressed by my charm, which is also familiar. “You’re late.”

I spread my hands. “Nice to see you too.”

He grips the back of my neck and pulls me in long enough to kiss my temple in that quick, awkward way he’s always had, then lets me go as if he didn’t do anything at all.

“There’s food,” he says gruffly. “Wash up.”

That’s as close to I missed you as my father gets.

Caleb claps me once between the shoulders as Bolt barrels past us into the kitchen.

“Dog remembered the place faster than you did,” he says.

“Dog’s got priorities.”

“Yeah,” Dad mutters. “Meat.”

I wash up at the sink while they finish plating dinner, and for a little while, I let myself just be here. Just this. My father bitching about how expensive groceries are, Caleb opening beers, Bolt circling underfoot, the world’s least subtle shark. The scrape of forks, the squeak of old cabinet hinges, the ceiling fan whirring overhead.

Normal.

It’s almost enough to make me forget the conversation I know is sitting in my future like a loaded gun on the table.

Almost.

We eat on the back porch because it’s cooler now, and Dad says food tastes better outside.

He’s not wrong.

By the second beer, Caleb’s run through updates on work, a busted boat trailer he helped a friend fix, and, of course, the fact that his baby is due any day now.

Dad catches my eye over the rim of his bottle. “You’re quiet.”

Caleb grins. “Uh oh.”

I lean back in my chair. “Can a man not enjoy being fed in peace?”

“A man can,” my father says. “You can’t. Not unless something’s chewing on you.”

That’s the trouble with family. They know the difference between your normal silence and the kind with weight in it.