Chapter 16 #2
“Yeah, jus’ like I used to back home,” Bronny adds, successfully receiving my stare along with a crooked grin. “Except Gilly can hold the phone instead of Grams.”
“I’d get her a selfie stick if I didn’t think she’d turn it into a weapon.
” Chuckles from me spark a few from them eventually deflating the remaining anguish.
“Alright, so you asked a girl?” Immediately, I amend, “Or boy? Person?” Proud nods are attached to me repeating, “Person is the right word choice. You’re welcomed to date whoever makes you happy in that aspect. ”
“Execution? Lowkey? Cringe,” Bronny announces. “Message…passes the vibe check though.”
Cluelessness has me shrugging in confusion. “Thanks?”
“And uh…she,” a devilish grin grows in place, “asked me.” Smugness has him standing taller. “An older broadskie.”
“Runs in the Groff genes,” I haughtily chortle on an extended fist for him to bump.
“Not the time,” muses Gillian with a swat to my ass.
“Ronnie McDowell probably sang it best.”
“Definitely a message for you rather than him.”
“Look,” my brother interrupts our flirty exchange by wiggling around a cloth tote of some kind, “I got all the stuff from the school store – they have these pre-made kits and then you can just buy extra shiz, so I did – meanin’ all we gotta do is assemble it.”
“You need our help assemblin’ it?”
“Prolly.” His shoulders innocently bounce. “Ya know I don’t even know what it is.”
“We’ll definitely help,” Gilly informs.
“Yeah,” escaping in a quick agreement is followed by me inquiring, “what all do we need? Like duct tape and a stapler?”
Horror immediately hops onto her face.
“What?” There’s no stopping my brow from pulling together. “That wrong?”
“Very,” she giggles in entertained outrage. “You’re gonna need hot glue and glitter and felt pens and maybe sharpies and…” Her rambling comes to an abrupt stop. “And you’re both looking at me like you don’t even know what that shit is.”
“I know what it is, and I also know I damn sure don’t have it.”
More girlish laughs precede her declaring, “Okay, Groffs. Field trip to my house where I do have those things and other items we might need.”
“You know a field trip wouldn’t be necc if you would jus’ fully move in already.”
The sassy glare I’m hit with is growing to be a favorite. “You know a realtor?”
“I can find one.”
“Would be a good idea if you want me here fulltime, all the time.”
“Noted.”
“Now, can we get going? I remember this process taking a hot min.”
“You sure you don’t mind us doin’ it there?” Concern cakes my expression. “Sounds like we’re about to make a big mess, and I don’t wanna ruin your stuff.”
“It’s fine…” An unexpected flash of excitement is seen. “I don’t mind. We’ll order pizza-”
“Za for the win, baby!”
“-put it together, and I’ll pack a few more pairs of scrubs for the week.”
Post the three of us collecting what we respectively need for travel, I load up into my truck while Gilly lets Bronny clock a few more driving hours behind the wheel of her car, further fulfilling the mom like role I’m glad he’s finally able to have.
That I helped provide for him.
Truth is, I would’ve figured out how to navigate all this shit without her…but I thank the man in boots in the sky that I don’t have to.
That he gets to have her.
That we both do.
That our little hatchlings someday will too.
Our physical transition from our house to Gilly’s doesn’t take too much time.
But getting all the artsy shit together does.
And arranging it.
And setting it up on her much smaller white top kitchen island.
And of course, deciding on the proper playlist for such a new adventure.
I eventually let my little bro pick the music – under Gillybean’s insistence.
Rookie mistake.
Ain’t got a clue what any of this garbage is and am already regretting my commitment to listening to it during the duration of this project.
We’re only ten minutes into this shit.
“Ouch!” Bronny barks, fingers snatching themselves away from where he put what I’m certain is too much glue.
“Yes,” Gillybean snickers from the chair on the other side of him, “hot glue is hot.” One leg sassily crosses over the other. “I didn’t think I needed to say that.”
“Too hot,” he grumbles as he sucks on the edge of his finger.
“You hurt or you injured, bud?” I tease in between searching through the container of markers.
Bronny grunts at the hockey phrased question before grousing, “Why am I the one doin’ this?”
“Why are you the one makin’ your date a mum?” mockingly escapes at the same time I find the silver sharpie I was determined to discover.
“Yeah!” Another annoyed scoff shoots out. “Shouldn’t you be doin’ this Gilly?” His attention cuts to her. “Ya know with your…lady…fingers…or whatevs.”
One slap upside the back of his head precedes me snapping, “Be less offensive.”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to be!”
“Try better!”
“You try better!”
“You do better!”
“I didn’t do wrong! Lady fingers ain’t a bad thing!”
“Sounds bad!”
“You sound bad!”
“Whistle on the play,” Gilly gently interjects like the real life zeb she is, ignoring the sound of her nearby, vibrating cell.
Both of our mouths shut, although tension continues to linger.
Being a big brother is one thing.
This full-time guardianship is a whole other.
It’s like being in The Cup run, every minute, of every day, with no rest.
How do people do this all the goddamn time?
Am I sure I wanna do this again, someday in the future, all the fucking time with another, smaller, louder one?!
Calmly, I announce, “You need to be the one makin’ this ‘cause it’ll mean more comin’ from you.”
“Aw,” my girlfriend sweetly coos, “that’s true…” She waits until my eyes swing over to hers. “At your age.”
Bronny loudly laughs in my face. “Ha!”
“I can cancel your debit card,” is attached to me pointing a sharpie at him.
His instant surrender occurs in the form of both palms being lifted.
“You need to be the one making this because it’s a good experience for you,” our art host informs.
“Yeah, but I’m bad at it.”
“And the only way you get better at anything is pracky, little bro,” I kindly remind with a firm pat to the back. “Some shit takes a lot more pracky than others.”
He shoots me with a proud smirk. “Like catchin’ a biscuit behind your back after it enters in the top corner?”
“Exactly.”
“Such a effin’ save in the last game. The dudes were so hype about it.”
“Spilled energy drinks all over the floor that were not fun to clean up,” Gilly quietly inserts.
“I’ll admit. That shit had my heart skip a beat or two.” We share a laugh prior to me pushing a black ribbon closer to him on a chin tip downward. “Now, let’s beef up those hot glue skills, the same way I’ve stacked my save ones, aye?”
Bronny picks up the dark object, the gun, and repositions the piece he needs to add while I simply monitor closely from beside him.
“What do you think, Gillybean?” Our gazes momentarily meet. “Should he write her name is sharpie or glitter?”
“Check the bucket for a glitter sharpie.”
“Gold,” the young one mutters, tongue hanging out to the side as he tries to properly align the ribbon. “Our school colors.”
“Alright then.” Abandoning the previous marker I had is followed by me making a suggestion. “Slayer, you wanna sort through the cut outs to give him some options to add?”
“Can do,” she singingly agrees.
Silence passes between us for only a minute courtesy of me not wanting to hear anymore of some punk band called Amyl and the Sniffers. “Did you go to homecomin’ when you were in high school, Gillybean?”
“The game or the dance?”
“Oh!” Bronny interjects, carelessly letting go of the glue gun. “I gotta text Denz. See what we’re supposed to wear to that thing.”
Rather than scold his disregard of the tool, I merely do what a tendy does best.
Catch the object before it can cause damage to the situation.
“I know what we’re eatin’ ‘cause his ‘rent works for BE so he has unlimited acc’ to the drool emojs.”
“Would it physically harm you to speak English?”
“Probably,” Gillian answers on his behalf when it’s clear he wasn’t listening.
“Did you ever go to both,” I toss in her direction while securing the hot portion away from my little brother before he can complain about being burned again. “Did you ever have to make the bud version of these?”
“Garters,” she informs as our eyes find one another’s once more. “And no. I went to the games, but never with someone. And never to the dance.”
“Why not?”
An impossible to ignore the sadness that slinks onto her shoulders. “No one ever asked.”
“You messin’ with me, baby?” Disbelief and outrage fuse together to the point I can barely keep my voice steady. “How’s that possible? How could anyone not wanna two-step with a PYT like you?”
“MJ reference acknowledged-”
“Thank you.”
“But to answer your question,” a small shrug shakes her whole frame, “no. I’m not messing with you.
I wasn’t popular then. Or in college. Or really…
ever. Guys have never fallen at my feet or pursued me – unless they were trying to get in good with or back at my brother – or really ever…
made an effort to show interest in me for me, present company excluded. ”
“As I should be.”
“My senior year I did think this guy in my French class was gonna ask me to go, but he actually asked out the girl behind me.” She tries not to let the sting be seen in her expression.
“Turns out all the eye flirting was not at all meant for me, which made my brother ecstatic since he hated the dude anyway from his senior year. Football has always been a bigger deal in Texas than hockey and pretty sure that played a major role in his disgust.”