Page 2 of Protector Book Boyfriend

Finally, I take a spot next to my dad on the front stoop as I soak in the warm glow of the setting sun. Together, we admire our hard work as we take our first break of the afternoon. This shit looks even better than any of us could have imagined, thanks to my mother’s faultless taste and determination. Just as I crack open another beer, my brother, Dylan. pops up with my best friend, Sable, trailing behind him. Sable has a radiant, caramel-toned complexion that reflects her vibrant energy, and thick natural curls that frame her face and fall to her shoulders. Her large, expressive eyes sparkle with intelligence and warmth, complementing her full cheeks that dimple when she smiles. She’s carrying a bag of takeout from my mom’s diner and my hazel eyes light up as soon as I see it. I reach for the bag, but Sable snatches it out of my reach, and Dylan steps in before I can try again.

“Hold your horses, man,” he says, angling his body between us. “Wait until she puts the shit down.”

Sable’s infectious laugh fills the air, a glint of humor crossing her heart-shaped face. She’s beaming as she steps around Dylan. He moves to the side and Sable stands on her tiptoes, throwing her free arm around my neck, giving me a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry, Sabe,” I say, truly apologetic.

“I know you are,” she smiles, sitting the bag on the stoop between me and Dad. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispers playfully. I rub my hands together in anticipation.

“I’m fucking starving,” I say, hovering over her and the bag as she opens it. “What’d you bring me?”

“Sandwiches, potato salad, sweet tea. Yours has mint in it.” Sable glances at me, snapping her fingers. “Shoot, I left the drinks in the car.”

“I’ll get it. Sabe,” Dylan says. “Keys?”

She takes a set of keys from her back pocket and drops them in Dylan’s hand. He stares at the tips of her fingers when they inadvertently brush his palm. He lifts his gaze to Sable’s face, holding her doe-like eyes, before she turns her attention back to me.

“Yo,” I snap at my brother. “drinks, go.”

“So, Sable, did you know that Dylan and Asa’s old babysitter is moving back to town?”

“Old babysitter,” Sable chuckles, a slight frown creasing her brow. Her face scrunches as if she can’t believe what she was hearing. “When did you have a babysitter?” Sabe asks as she sits on the step underneath me.

“She wasn’t really a babysitter. She looked out for Dylan and me while Mom and Dad were out doing their thing.”

“That’s what Asa likes to think,” Dad says. “But she was very much his babysitter.” He looks at me and grips my shoulder. “You think we’d leave the two of you in our house alone? No way in hell, son.”

“How old were you?” Sable asks.

“I was thirteen, fourteen. Dylan was twelve.”

“She was a godsend,” Mom says. “I absolutely hate what she’s going through. She was such a caring person.”

“What’s she going through?” Sable asks. Mom hesitates, a look of concern spreads across her face.

“I don’t want to put her business out in the street.”

“Her business is already in the street, Mom.”

“Yeah—but I don’t want to be the one to put it out there, you know.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know.”

Mom loved Porsha. She admired and respected her for being a responsible young woman. Trusting her to watch over and cook for her two rambunctious boys while she and Dad were busy building their lives. Porsha was only ten years older than me and Dylan, but she took on the role of caretaker with ease. She was funny as hell, always teasing my cocky brother and keeping him in line. Dylan thought he was God’s gift to the opposite sex even in middle school - rebellious, flirtatious, and constantly getting into trouble. Meanwhile, I gained a reputation for cleaning up his messes, especially with the girls he hurt or played with. I apologized on his behalf and trying to convince people that deep down, he really was a good guy. But unlike my charismatic brother, I didn’t actively pursue girls. Partly because I didn’t have to. Hell, neither one of us really did, thanks to inheriting the best genes from both sides of the coin.

Big hazel eyes, dirty blonde hair (which is now bleached from the Texas sun), sharp cheekbones from mom, and a Roman nose from dad. Our long torsos and lean muscular bodies courtesy of good ol’ genetics. We even shared the same deep gravelly voice like our grandfather on Mom’s side. Naw, getting girls was never a problem for either of us. Finding ones we wanted to keep turned out to be the real challenge. As I think back on all of this, I catch my mom stirring from inside her she-shed. She’s sitting in one of her comfy chairs, leaning forward, a curious expression on her face.

“If you run into Porsha, make sure you’re nice to her,” Mom says, her eyes ping ponging between me and Sable. “I hear the last few years haven’t been kind to her.”

“Why is that?” Sable asks, as Dylan returns with our iced tea.

“Divorce is hard, honey.”

“Who’s divorced?” Dylan asks, handing Sable her drink.

“Porsha,” I say, as I take my mint tea from him.

“Porsha?” Dylan asks.

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