“Sure you are.” Grant, one of Brody’s brother's snickers, flinging me a beer. I may have chugged that one down.
“What’s the deal with Malone and the woman anyway?”
“He’s just very overprotective of her. Her late husband was his best friend. He’s been looking out for her since.”
“She’s a looker.” I smirk.
“Look elsewhere, bro. Shelby and Brody are not up for discussion when it comes to my brother.”
I can’t takemy eyes off her. I’m happily buzzed, yes, but there is something magnetic about the woman and the constant frown set between her brows. The way she talks to everybody but me. That means she notices me. I like that. The way that shirt hugs her breasts is a fucking distraction. Grady glares at me, and I look down at my food. His heavily pregnant wife, Dylan, is probably the only one who tries to make conversation, looking between her husband and me trying to diffuse the situation. She reminds me of Aidan’s wife, Ocea, and so I like her instantly. Grady’s can’t seriously be such a cockblocker. Brody takes a seat next to me when his mother and the rest of the women disappear inside.
“Sorry about my mom, man.” He sighs. It is so cute, I can’t help but grin. “She gets pretty intense.”
“It’s cool, little dude; mine is just as bad,” I tell him. “If your mom is tough, mine is momzilla.”
“She is?” He seems surprised.
“I think all moms are like that. It comes with the job description. But they mean well. And you should listen to yours.”
He nods. “Mine seems a bit worse than others, though.”
“She just cares about you.” I ruffle his hair, and he beams up at me.
“You wanna play catch again, some time? Maybe, have a few beers,” he asks, and I laugh out loud.
“Root beers, Brody,” Grady cautions but melts when Brody looks up at him. “Your mom’s about ready to leave. You should get going, big man.”
He sighs. “Fine. See ya around, Ember. Thanks for the game.”
“Sure thing, little dude. I would love to have a rematch.” We shake hands.
I leave not long after, one of the guys giving me a lift to my new house. I hate the silence I walk into, so I sink down at the front door and decide not to move until morning.
* * *
There isan incessant knocking on my temples. It’s the result of an uncared for hangover. I didn’t get to the medicine cabinet, so I didn’t get to the painkillers. The knocking continues, and I tell myself that if I stay still enough, it will go away. It doesn’t. Instead, it’s coupled with shouting. I open my eyes, and my eyelids hurt. The room comes into focus, well, the foyer does, and I realize that someone is at the front door. Staggering up, I open the door.
Marcy blasts through the door like the hurricane she is, brown bags in hand. She walks past me, casting me a brief and disappointed glare.
“I’ve been out there for ten minutes, ten whole minutes, and from the look of you, you were drunk off your ass on the floor. Again.”
“Good to see you too, Marcy.” I don’t bother defending myself, just shut the door behind me, and follow her into the kitchen. She slams the bags on the counter, unpacking coffee, milk, and various food items from a grocery bag, storing them in the fridge and cupboards. You’d think she lives here, the way she knows herself around this kitchen,
“Thank you,” I tell her, eyeing the bags.
She looks me over, her face scrunching in disgust. “You need a shower.”
I look down at my creased clothing and agree.
“Where the hell were you this week? You didn’t take my calls, and all your texts were one-worded.”
“Work,” I mumble.
“Yeah, sure, Em.” She shakes her head. “You could hide behind that in Seattle. This is home, so fucking cut it out.”
She brews coffee, not bothering to ask if I want some or not. Sisters! She doesn’t look at me the way most people did back in Seattle. No, Marcy looks at me like Ember, her annoying, currently hungover brother. She doesn’t pity me. She’s lived through everything with me, felt my pain, and broke down with me, the way only a twin sibling can. We have the same jet black hair, expresso eyes, and bronze skin tone. But we’re different. She’s the strong one. Most days, I drown myself in alcohol just to stay afloat.
She hands me a cup and sits on the stool at the kitchen island. “How’re you finding Sunnyville so far?”
