I smacked my palm against the steering wheel for the millionth time. It was too much to ask for her to come to Constance and keep company with a storm shelter or maybe take part in some survivalist program—far, far away in a cave—where I didn’t have to see her—or think about her—or have to look her in the eye and tell her that she wasn’t ugly.
As if any man in their right mind would ever think that Tate Halloway was anywhere in the same hemisphere with ugly.
Hell, she wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as pretty—she was drop dead, hit your head on the floor, and sleep forever in a coma, gorgeous from head to toe. Stupid me thought it was the cowboy boots or the tight skirts. I’d made up excuses about it—imagined that if you put that outfit on any girl they would appear just as attractive.
I was a dumbass.
Willa was right—she got all the brains in the family.
Even disheveled and unshowered, the girl put the word beautiful to shame—made it cower in the corner and beg for forgiveness for even thinking it stood a chance against her.
God, I’ve become this internal sap.
It just added to the ridiculousness that was Bridger Wright lately.
It was embarrassing enough to have to bring Cami’s inedibles to Preacher Wife’s house as a gift—they were more like a punishment. Poor Cami—she tried. She tried so hard to be a normal, everyday Pioneer woman. Her pies smelled like they were freezer burnt—either that or burnt to a crisp—nothing in between.
Me? I didn’t even try for some semblance of normality. Like earlier tonight, I just stood there in the doorway of that house that made me feel like a sinner at heaven’s doorstep as I looked in at her, not knowing what to say or how to say it.
I couldn’t even tell her goodbye. I said ‘later’ like I was so street. I was the very opposite of street—or gangster—whatever in the hell it was called.
Grade A bastard, that’s what I was.
Someone print it on a shirt.
It was one thing for her to be at school where it was easy to avoid her—but here in this tiny town where it was breaking news every time someone farted crooked, it was almost impossible to avoid anything. I was surprised we’d made it a whole two days without running into each other.
Then again, she looked like she hadn’t made it out of the house much. Tate resembled the faint green from when I’d taken her to the hospital before.
I wondered why she always looked frail. She didn’t act frail.
“Tomorrow is going to be fun.” Willa’s head was turned toward the window. Her voice carried a tinge of mischief in it—always had. More like a whole suitcase of mischief. There was a way in which you dealt with Will Wright. If you let on that something was up and you were privy to it, she’d make the follow-through truly painful in the way that only sisters can make things painful for their brothers. Like embarrass them in the worst way possible—or have them kicked in the nuts—or belittled in front of a hot girl.
One time she took a pair of battery operated clippers to the back of my head after she saw it on Jackass at a friend’s house.
Stockton banned her from that friend’s house.
And I had to shave my head down to the skin.
Still, I loved the goof. And I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.
“Tomorrow is going to be work. We have to feed over a hundred people and then deliver meals to the ones who couldn’t get to the church.”
Since I was old enough to carry a basket of biscuits or a jar full of cranberry sauce, I’d spent my Thanksgivings at the church helping out. Dozens of turkeys were deep fried or baked, and everything that went with them was prepped for a day of sharing.
‘Only in sharing and kindness can we truly give thanks.’ That was what my dad used to say.
Lord above, please let Cami not try to bake pies for tomorrow. The church will never have another parishioner again. They will all go to hell rather than eat more of Cami’s pies.
“Of course it will be work. But there’s always fun to be had, especially now that I’ve got a new friend.”
She said the word friend like most people said alliance.
Willa said friend and I heard cohort.
I refused to acknowledge the hole that the hillbilly twins, now the hillbilly trifecta could get me into.
I threw the truck into park but locked the doors with the automatic button when she tried to get out. The gleam in her eye read matchmaker. I’d seen that look before. She’d set up West on so many dates, there was no one else in town for him to date.
“Look Willa, don’t go sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. That girl is nothing but trouble.”
Sexy as hell, makes me want to grab her up and kiss her senseless trouble—but trouble nonetheless.
Trouble like Tate Halloway comes with a side dish of scandal.
She turned on me in a blink. “What part of ‘I have a new friend’ has anything to do with you Bridger?”
“The part where you two were whispering about something when I came back in the room. Don’t meddle, Willa. Besides, she practically threw me out of her life the last time I saw her. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. Leave it be.”
She didn’t seem impressed with my commands. Instead, she rolled her so big they were almost cartoonish eyes at me and flicked with the door handle, demanding I let her out.
Why couldn’t I just have brothers and a sister who minded their own business? It would be easy. We could just buy one of those houses that is so big you can just live your own life without ever seeing the other people. Stockton and Cami could make-out on their side, West could do all the nasty things he does on his side,Willa could meddle in outsiders’ business all she wanted and I could stay in my wing, oblivious to the world and Willa’s blatant disregard for my adamancy against anything that had to do with Tate Halloway.
I didn’t see the issue.
We could be one of those dysfunctional families.
Those seemed nice.
I popped the locks on the truck and she jumped down. My bold sister practically ran up the steps to the house and past the open screen door. It was cooler than normal for this time of year, but not nearly cold enough to warrant heat. Cami probably had it open to waft out the gag-worthy aroma of her mincemeat pies. Whoever told that woman that people in this town liked mincemeat pies should be tarred and feathered, old-school style.
Through the lit window of the kitchen, I could see Willa and Cami, head to head, talking about something.
No, not something—someone.
Nope, I wasn’t having it.
I stomped into the kitchen and gave them my best stink eye.
“What crawled up your ass and rotted?”
Leave it to West to ruin a perfectly angered moment.
“These two are conspiring against me.” I pointed an accusatory finger in the direction of the Wright girls. “Willa and Cami are—they’re—they up to something!”
“Ooooohh…” West clapped his hands together and rubbed them maniacally. “I wanna help. Is it about Tate? I like her. She’s gingerlicious. He’s been a real dicktater since Tate showed up.”
I canted my head in his direction as he said “dicktater.” I really thought he was going to say that other word that I’d banned him from saying or talking about the action that it described.
He was also banned from potatoes in general.
West was a real sicko.
He stood. “I didn’t say that word. You nearly took my left nip off the last time I said it. And I only did it that once—just as an experiment.”
“What’s he talking about? I didn’t understand half of it.” Stockton came into the room from outside smelling of embers and ash. It reminded me of my dad, who would, by the way, roll over in his grave if he heard West using words he’d found on the Urban Dictionary.
“Here let me show you.” All three of them huddled around West’s tablet as he showed them the Urban Dictionary online.
I tried to interrup
t. “I don’t think Willa should see that.”
Cami slapped a hand over Willa’s eyes before she could get that kind of education. At least someone listened to me once in a while.
A clap rang out as Stockton popped West on the back of the head.
“Boy, you need to go to church. Our mama would die a second death if she knew you were using that kind of language—and around our sister! That’s it. You’re sitting in the front pew on Sunday.”
West turned off the tablet, still laughing at everyone’s disgust. Sometimes, I thought West did all these things for the shock factor. He consistently came up with ways to keep us shocked. Any time we tried to talk about Mama or Dad, he’d turn into a jester.
“If I sit in the front pew, Preacher will spit on me. And if Deacon Jacobs does the praying, he’s liable to cannon his dentures at me. I will vomit—right there in the church. I swear to G…”
“West!”
Cami and Willa were huddled together laughing their asses off at Stockton’s glaring offense at what we already knew about West.
He was the clown of the family. His comedic tendencies had been smothered in the last few years, but college life with me had apparently awoken the beast.
Nothing was going to stop that. Not a knock on the head, not first pew in church and certainly not prayer.
Believe me, I’d tried praying for him until I was blue in the face.
“Can you at least curb your vulgar mouth through Thanksgiving?”
West rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun anymore, old man.”
A rage boiled in Stockton’s eyes. He hated being called “old man.” West had apparently pushed that button one too many times. Cami’s eyes bulged out. She knew something bad was about to happen. West’s antics had gone unchecked by Stock for too long.
Run, West, run!
“That’s it.”
Before we could stop the spiral of madness, Stockton had West by the collar and was dragging him outside with a smile on his face that only the rest of us could see. West clung to the doorframe, the railings, and then finally in a desperate attempt, grabbed the elephant ears Cami had planted by the stairs—but each time, Stockton jerked his hands-free and continued on like he was pulling a spider out of the house—deadly and vile. The three of us followed, Cami, Willa and I, not because we were concerned for West, but because it was hysterical.
Apparently ‘old man’ was the button to push if you wanted to crawl under Stockton’s skin.
Around the side of the house, West begged in a feminine tone which he was a little too practiced at. “Come on, Stock. You’re not old. You’re young and spry and such a big, handsome man. Look at those bulging arms, so sexy.”
They were both laughing at that point, but Stockton wasn’t letting up. He was wearing his overalls and you knew if Stockton was wearing overalls, he wasn’t to be messed with.
It was a thing. Overalls equaled no bullshit.
“Shut up. Say you’re sorry Weston Alexander Wright.”
Stockton was holding the garden hose and though it wasn’t as cold as usual, it was still cold enough for being sprayed with water to be a punishment. There were parts of me that shrunk up just at the thought.
West’s palms were facing Stock. “Okay, okay. Shit. I’m sorry—old man.”
And that was the moment we found out the real truth—the sick, ugly truth of my little brother. It was cruel for God to make him that way.
We all discovered his scream.
West Wright screamed like a cat being neutered with a red-hot spoon under no anesthesia.
It was embarrassing.
It embarrassed me to be his brother.
Stock hosed him until he was almost drowning.
Eventually, the torture stopped. Stockton and the rest of us were laughing so hard we could barely breathe. West finally got up, soaked but didn’t look like the hosing fazed him at all.
“I’m sleeping with the sheep,” West announced, trampling, dripping and faking anger, toward the sheep—the ones we didn’t own.
“We don’t own sheep, you moron,” I called out.
West threw his arms up to the sky. “Can’t a guy catch a break around here?”
“Alright you two. Stockton, that’s enough. And West, take those wet clothes off before you come inside. Don’t think I’m going to clean up that mess.”
Cami had gone from giggling teenager to motherly matriarch in seconds.
“Fine. But I’m not sitting in the front with Sir spits a lot and the denture launcher.”
That’s when the spraying started all over again.