Page 11 of Worth the Fall

“If you say so.” I decided not to argue as I pulled two plates from the cupboard right as Patrick and Matthew walked inside without knocking. They did that sometimes—showed up without warning.

“Uncles!” Clara shouted and scooted out of her chair so fast that it fell backward. “Oops,” she said, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

“I got it, princess,” Matthew said as he ran toward the toppled-over piece of furniture and righted it. “Smells like we arrived just in time, eh, Patrick?”

“Definitely,” Patrick agreed as he shoved his hair out of his eyes right before Clarabel beelined straight for him.

She jumped, and he caught her with little effort before tossing her on top of his shoulders.

The three of us really did look a lot alike. There was no denying that we were brothers, even if Patrick’s hair was longer and Matthew’s eyes were a little bluer.

“You guys staying for dinner?” I asked, reaching for two more plates.

“Stay. Stay. Stay,” Clarabel chanted from her shoulder perch, and I knew they’d never tell her no.

“Run, horsey.” She swatted Patrick’s head as he pretended to trot around the living room, his hair flopping back into his eyes.

Matthew sauntered into the kitchen and grabbed the plates. “I’ll set the table. You bring the grub.”

Nodding, I reached for a towel and carried the still-hot lasagna to the table before heading back to grab a spatula and shaker Parmesan cheese for the little one.

“Drinks?” I asked out loud and waited for everyone to shout their orders at me like I knew they would.

The three of them yelled in unison.

“Water.”

“Beer.”

“Apple juice.”

Instead of saying anything in response, I went to work, getting their requests.

Balancing them all in both hands, I placed the corresponding drink in front of the right person. Clarabel was sitting patiently in her chair, her hands folded in her lap as I scooped out giant helpings onto each plate.

Everyone dug in, and I watched as Clara blew on her forkful of lasagna before putting it in her mouth, like she didn’t quite trust it not to burn her.

“Yum,” she said as she chewed.

“Mouth closed,” I reminded her.

“Sorry,” she tried to say as she swallowed. “Who wants to hear about my day?” Clara asked to the table filled with three of her biggest fans.

We all answered at the same time—a resounding yes, of course—and she put her fork down with a clang before pushing out of her chair and standing.

“Scott made fun of my shoes.” She pointed down at them. “Said that only weirdos wore two different shoes, so I must be one.”

I swore that you could have heard a damn pin drop with how silent the three of us got. We all stopped chewing as we looked around the table, each one of our eyes meeting the other before focusing back on Clarabel. Scott must have been raised by fools, and it was clear that he and his parents must suffer now.

Clearing my throat, I tried to sound calm, but there was a thread of protectiveness bubbling just under the surface. Clarabel loved to wear two different shoes.

When she had been younger, I’d tried to force her to match, but she looked at me one morning and simply asked, “Why?”

To be honest, I didn’t have a damn good reason to give her. So, I’d caved, thinking she was just going through a phase. Plus, wearing two different shoes on the right feet wasn’t hurting anyone.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Told him I’d rather be a weirdo than dumb and a jerk,” she answered, and we all started laughing after absorbing her brilliant response.

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