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"Fuck sake," I muttered. "Is there a sign-up sheet?"

Dylan leaned against the doorframe, holding two beers. "Actually, yeah. Mom took the first shift. I drew second."

I stared at him.

He grinned. "Dean's got the four-to-four-fifteen slot, but he said he'd trade if I covered his chores next Thursday."

"Get out."

"Can't. I'm on the clock."

He tossed me a beer.

I caught it. "You're a pain in my ass."

Dylan walked in and dropped into the chair by the window like he owned the place. Which, technically, he sort of did.

We'd grown up in this house. Shared a bathroom. Shared chores. Shared blame for a spectacular number of ideas that started out being the making of legends but ended in disasters. Out of all my brothers, Dylan had always been the one I was closest to.

Dawson was the responsible one.

Dean was the brainiac. The guy who could calculate the cost of a broken fence down to the penny while simultaneously judging you for breaking it.

Dylan was the guy who'd bury the body for me, no questions. Then remind me about it every Thanksgiving for the rest of my life.

He twisted the cap off his beer and chirped a cheery, "So."

"Unless you’re following up with la, I don’t what to hear it."

“La?” he repeated.

“A note to follow so,” I sing-songed my reference to “Do-Re-Mi” from The Sound of Music, a movie my mom loved.

He grinned. "I just have one question."

"Sadly, I have zero answers. Turns out we’re not compatible after all."

He took a sip of his beer. "What's going on with you and Mikayla?"

I tipped my head back. "Unbelievable."

"What?"

"Doesn’t anyone have anything else to talk about?"

"Not really.” He took a sip from his beer. “Mom says you were being evasive."

"Mom needs a hobby."

"She has one. It's us."

I took a long pull from my beer. Dylan waited. I waited. We were both good at waiting.

He broke first.

"Well?" he finally prompted.

"Well, what?"