Page 23 of Mr. Broody

“Language,” Mom hollers from the other room.

“How about a little gratitude?” I say to my brothers.

“Good thing she didn’t get a job as a chef.” Owen and Waylon both laugh.

“Haha.” I roll my eyes at them.

Waylon pats me on the shoulder. “Oh relax. So, what do you do with first graders?”

I watch the twins each make sandwiches the exact same way. A little egg, a little bacon, more egg, and the last of the bacon. I wonder what it would be like to grow up with a twin.

They have matching dark hair from Mom and blue eyes from Reed. Staring at someone and seeing yourself must be so weird.

“Cheese!” Owen gets up and opens the fridge.

“Grab me a slice.” Waylon continues to construct his egg sandwich.

I have to admit it looks pretty good.

“Henry had a killer game last night.” Waylon looks at me through his eyelashes, and Owen peeks at me from the fridge.

Seriously, more people on the Henry train?

“That goal in the third.” Owen lets out a long whistle.

“His wrist shot is insane this year. I texted him,” Waylon says.

My ears perk up more. The boys have his number? Of course they do. Henry’s practically an older brother to them.

“He’s gonna stop by to show me some drills.” Owen tosses a slice of cheese on Waylon’s plate and sits back on his stool at the breakfast counter.

“He should come to practice. Bring Bodhi.”

I turn around to hide my reaction to the fact that my little brothers know a lot more than I do about Henry and his son. It hurts a little, although I have no right to feel that way. I’m the one who decided to stay away.

“Definitely. Let me text him now.” Owen pulls out his phone.

I told Henry he could use my number on Saturday, and here we are on Thursday, and no text from him. But he’s texting my brother. Wonderful.

Owen’s thumbs move across the screen, then his phone rings in his hands. Since I’ve been home, I haven’t seen my brothers actually talk to anyone on the phone—they’re always texting or snapping or whatever it is they do—but Owen answers it right away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” a small voice says.

“What’s up, Bodzilla?” Owen says and puts the call on speakerphone.

“I’m ready for school, but Daddy’s still getting ready, so he said to call you.” His little voice is so cute and darling.

I stir my creamer into my mug with my back turned so I can act as though it doesn’t faze me in the slightest to think about Henry in the shower or standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist. Styling his dark-blond hair or brushing those insanely white teeth. Nope, not picturing that at all. I can’t keep my back turned forever though, so I circle around and pretend I’m perfectly fine.

Waylon leans over to be closer to the phone. “Tell him to hurry up. No one wants to be the late kid.” He takes an oversized bite of his sandwich.

“Yesterday I was the last one there,” Bodhi says.

Henry late? The Henry I remember was always early. But then again, he has a six-year-old to get ready now too.

“You’re the cool kid for being the last one to arrive.” Owen nudges Waylon as if to say change the narrative.

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