Page 87 of Five Brothers

“To the bride and groom!” Trace holds up his beer.

Everyone joins him, Army with the vodka soda I made, and Dallas with one of the LandSharks.

“And ten more years of having sex in every single fucking location except your own damn house!”

Roars fill the room, so loud I can’t hear the music. I laugh.

The groom pulls his bride into his body, and she laughs with everyone else.

“We love you,” Trace tells them. “Macon couldn’t be here, but he did give me the credit card, so order what you want. It’s on us!”

He holds his bottle up higher, howls filling the air, and all of a sudden, the bar is flooded as a Brandi Carlile song starts on the jukebox.

I lean over, scooping ice into five glasses and adding vodka, Tabasco, Worcestershire, and Bloody Mary mix, while Iris stands at the other end filling all the servers’ orders. Someone wants calamari, another wants cheese sticks, and I’m really glad the point-of-salesystem is the exact same as Mariette’s because otherwise I’d be crying right now.

Slowly, the crowd thins, everyone getting their first round, and Trace runs behind the bar, grabbing another beer.

I mark another line to keep track of his drinking. If the inventory doesn’t match up, I’m not getting yelled at.

He uncaps the beer and slaps a kiss on my cheek as I pop the tops on four Coronas. “Aren’t they already married?” I ask him as he rounds the bar again.

“They redid their vows,” he tells me. “Every ten years, they say.”

I watch Mr. Torres as he tries to put a maraschino cherry in his wife’s mouth, but she’s laughing too hard to let him. He circles her neck with his hand, pulling her back into him and planting a kiss on her mouth instead.

He leaves her and approaches the bar, slapping Trace on the back. “Macon didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“He wanted to,” Trace says, gesturing to me and handing me the credit card to keep. I stick it in an empty glass next to the register. “He appreciates you.”

“How is he?” Torres asks. “I haven’t seen anything other than glimpses of him in weeks.”

But Trace just nods, lifting a bottle to his lips. “He’s fine. Busy. Would you like another round?”

I notice the quick way Trace changes the subject, but Mr. Torres doesn’t seem to. He rears back, shaking his head.

But Trace pushes Torres’s drink up to his mouth, ordering him, “Chug it.”

Torres downs the rest of his whiskey neat, and I start to make him another one. I hand him the new glass just as a woman slips her arms around Trace.

His gaze darts to me, but I move down the bar, clearing away the empty glasses and bottles.

I don’t care.

He’s not mine. I’m not his.

But I avoid looking back in their direction, because I do care a little, and I know I shouldn’t.

It’s got to be a girl thing, right? Lingering territoriality? Possessiveness? Like I don’t want to be forgotten?

I let out a breath. I’ll get over it.

He takes her to the small dance floor, and they move, her body plastered to his and her arms around his neck. Dark hair longer than the bride’s, the smooth skin on her lower back glowing underneath his hands. The green silk top looks amazing against her tawny skin.

“You’ll never look as good with any of us as she does,” a familiar voice says.

I hold back my groan as I wipe down the bar. “Oh, we don’t know that.” I glance over at Dallas, who stands there with an empty beer bottle. “I haven’t been through everyone in your house yet.”

His eyes dance because he knows I never will and I’m just talking out of my ass. I uncap another beer and hand it to him, walking away before he can say more.

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