27. Seeking a High Score
seeking a high score
Mirren
The boys come trickling in. One-by-one they give me hugs, or noogies, or both. Davie is the last to arrive as usual. He slides in, still in his pajamas, hair askew, having not shaved.
He grabs coffee and plops next to me, shaking his head when I open my mouth to ask him what’s up. He points to his coffee and then places a finger to his lips.
“Hungover?” I mouth.
His nod is enough. His eyes closing in pain act as the exclamation point.
I suck in a huge lungful of air because fucking with Rookie makes me so freaking happy, but he tenses, and I relent.
He and I are the closest in age and have a special bond.
Not like Charlie who sees me as his to protect and who has set it up where I run to him for help.
Not like Jamie who has the military background and shares a similar past with me—one that no one else, aside from Dad, can fathom.
But the two youngest. The two overlooked. The two who relied on each other.
I pat his knee and leave him to refill my cup and grab a glass of orange juice. Johnny and Jamie are at the counter, watching Charlie plop dollops of biscuit dough into a hot dish full of melted butter. Mikey, behind him, is scrambling eggs.
Charlie cringes as Mikey elbows him every time he passes. It’s intentional. They’re the two broadest, the boldest, and the brawlers. The next time it happens Charlie spins. “I dare you to do that again or I’ll force that bowl of eggs down your throat.”
Mikey grins wide, puts the bowl to his lips, and downs enough that my gag reflex bobs and my stomach flips. Egg juice lingers in his week-old beard. He smacks his lips and grins wildly. “Ah, protein. Does the body good.”
“That’s gross, Zipper. Toss that whole bowl out and start again,” Mom goes on. As if that needs to be said.
“Can’t,” he replies. “I used all of ’em but three.”
“Cooking will technically kill all the germs,” I start, and all eyes turn to me.
I lift both hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” I know better than to stay in this kind of powder keg and return to my chair, offering the juice to Rookie. “It’ll help. Drink up.”
He downs it and dives back into his coffee.
My butt vibrates with a text.
HoneyBun
Who’s Kevin?
This is so not the place or time for this convo, but it’s as solo as I’ll get for the day. Rookie is quiet and not making any effort at conversation, and the rest are in a heated conversation about breakfast and who’s refusing to eat eggs.
Zipper simply grins and winks when I catch his eyes. He’s starting shit—like always. He’s such an instigator. He’s also the first to apologize and make shit right. Big personality, bigger heart.
I can’t help but offer a huge grin in return to my teddy bear of a brother.
Turning my attention to my phone, I formulate a coded message.
Kevin is the purple substitute that nearly drowned in an ice bath.
HoneyBun
I was jealous before. But knowing you named it…
Him.
*It.* Makes me want to hunt down all the Kevins and make them pay.
Cute.
Grrr.
And Kevin, apparently, made the trip with me to Illinois.
Can he travel with you to Nashville? He can stowaway and won’t require his own ticket.
It’s doubtful you’ll need him…
Unless you’re following me to Alabama, I will.
I repeat, grrr.
How’s your day?
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and it’s just getting started. Yours?
Lowkey and dull, but after the last week, it’s just what the medic ordered.
“Breakfast,” Mom calls.
Knowing she’s already in a state, I pocket my phone, despite the vibration, and look at Rookie. “Come on, Davie. Carbs will help. Then we can escape outside with some hair of the dog, if need be.”
He groans and pushes himself from the wide chair and follows me to the huge dining room table.
Breakfast is chatty and loud, as it always is when the eight of us are in one room. It’s not lost on me that we’re all here, together. Siblings twenty-seven to thirty-nine under one roof all day for the holiday must be rare.
Mikey is boisterous. Davie’s trying hard just to swallow what’s in front of him. Jamie watches everything and everyone. Charlie keeps the peace. And Johnny says next to nothing.
I don’t think that’s because he has less to contribute so much as he won’t fight for airtime, and since the others can be boisterous, especially around each other, he chooses to stand down.
That is, until he forks up—and eats—a bite of eggs that all of us have studiously avoided—all but Mikey and Dad.
The sound that comes from him is simultaneous with him throwing his fork Mikey’s way. “Fuck”
Out of nowhere, like some action movie superhero, Dad catches the flinging fork mid-air, holding it aloft for more than a moment before setting it on the table next to him.
“Johnny!” Mom begins, her voice spiraling higher and louder with each word. “We do not throw silverware at the table. Or anywhere for that matter.” She flicks egg remnants off her shoulder. “Ugh.”
No one tells her about the little bits in her hair. None of us would dare.
Mikey looks sheepish. Johnny looks less chastised and more indignant. “Sorry I ate pre-licked eggs at Thanksgiving breakfast. I should’ve known better.”
Oh, the sarcasm. That’s what comes with being as smart as he is and holding his tongue too much at large gatherings. He stands, pours another cup of coffee, and leans a hip into the counter watching us from the outside.
I want to say come back, but I’m not interested in being wrangled either.
The Joneses around the table who feel awkward in silences start speaking in earnest while Davie sinks lower in his chair. I push my juice his way, and he gives me a look of appreciation.
The whole meal is delicious, though, let’s be real, it always is. Add a little bacon grease to eggs and they’re always better, extra butter on biscuits and a nice salty breakfast potato, and I’m a happy girl. I push my plate away, leaving more on it than I’ll be allowed to get away with.
“Not good, Mirri?” Mom asks, slicing accusing eyes Mikey’s way.
“Delicious. But I need to pace myself, you know.” I pat my flat belly for emphasis.
She mumbles under her breath about donuts and coffee filling me up, but I pretend I don’t hear it. The only acceptable answer is for me to stop bringing donuts. And from the empty boxes in the trash, I know my brothers would riot.
So would Dad, but she’ll never know that he’s an offender. To her, he toes the line. But I know the truth. With a cream-filled glazed, I could get state secrets or an extra share of my inheritance.
He makes eye contact. “Scoot, you know it bothers your mom. I don’t know why you continue to provoke her on holidays like this.” I get a sly wink before he returns to his nearly empty plate. He places a kiss on Mom’s cheek when he’s done. “Delicious as always. I knew I married you for a reason.”
“It wasn’t my cooking,” she deadpans, and every voice at the table groans and evacuates the room.
Strider
Running was a bad idea. It took about a half a mile before the pounding of my heart was a focused pulse on my neck and eye socket and the throbbing became so intense that I fell into a brisk walk. Better than nothing, I guess, and definitely better than sitting on my sofa.
Mirren hasn’t responded to my last text, but she was right about the arnica.
I drive two towns over for a pharmacy that’s open today.
Not because it wasn’t available in Peoria, but because I own a business in town—one that’s respectable, gives back to the community, and one that had enough controversy yesterday for the decades we’ve been in business.
Firing people isn’t fun. Putting men you like out of work sucks, but during the holiday season, it’s even harder.
Now a man’s in jail, which made the freaking news.
No doubt all the neighborhood pages on socials are abuzz.
That’s not the way I want to be thought of, discussed, or the way I want my business dissected.
Showing up with a ring of bruises and a black eye is fuel on a fire I want quenched, so I took a bit of a drive and looked sketchy as shit in my scarf and sunglasses on a cloudy day.
Calling Mom on the way to explain how I wasn’t on my flight was as much fun as running with the pounding at my jugular…
or the moment I acquired the injury. What’s worse is her repeating everything to the room at large after each sentence since she refuses to put me on speakerphone.
I make a statement, she comments, gasps or emotes, then repeats what I say close to verbatim, but with commentary.
Over and over again.
“Jim, come talk to your son.” That’s when the line goes from full of background noise to a man-to-man conversation with the person I most respect in this world.
“Son, what happened? Tell me from the beginning.”
I do, down to investigations, audits, and the conversation-turned-confrontation in the conference room.
“There was always something off with that man.”
“What?” I damn near hit the brakes at his tone.
“It was off. He knew the business, but not the way that we do. Does that make sense?”
Making a right, I consider it. “Maybe. He didn’t seem weird though. More so, he was formal. And let’s be real, you’ve been in the industry longer than he’s been alive, and I’ve been raised to eat, sleep, and breathe it, so that’s not a valid argument.”
“He understood the business side. The spreadsheets, managing the crew, but it was his in-the-field presence that I’m talking about.”
Well, that shit’s on me, because I didn’t check in on him nearly enough to see that. Or I was checked out enough that I missed it. That’s not how I operate.
“I’ll need to consider that.” That’s all I can come up with because I haven’t… considered it, that is. His references were glowing, and his work history was right. He was new to town, and we were an obvious choice for where he’d land with his skillset. And we always make room for talent.
“How are you going to backfill that much loss?” Dad, ever the businessman, has his wheels spinning on how I should be running my business. Well, his, but it was handed over to me. So it’s mine, though he may never see it that way.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
“And you didn’t feel well enough to come? Are you having a flare up?”
“No. Thank God or this would’ve been way worse.”
He drops his voice through the line. “You didn’t answer my first question.”
“Dad. I’m fine. I wasn’t interested in traveling with visible bruises, or having Mom worry, or pressing myself for three days.
” Only to return and not know the status of Price’s whereabouts.
I don’t add that part. But ever since Mirren mentioned it, it’s rattled around in me like she pulled the plunger on a pinball machine and the worry is seeking a high score.