Page 35 of Home Wrecker

Just then Cary moves out from behind the island, giving me a full view of why Laurel’s shit-eating grin is so wide. The outline of his dick is visible beneath the flimsy running shorts. As he moves across the room approaching me, it bounces.

My sister smartly stays behind Cary. Her lips make an “O”.

Cary looks over his shoulder as she goes still as a statue and her expression blanks. He laughs.

With burning cheeks, Laurel says she’s getting ready for the day and to save her a plate. She heads upstairs. Honestly, if I could crawl into a hole and die for her, I would.

Cary greets me, chastely pressing his mouth to my forehead. I reach for an apron hanging from the nearest peg. Slipping it over his neck, I tie it and mumble, “You wouldn’t want to get burned from spattered grease.”

He adjusts the apron over his bare chest as if it’s no big deal and cups my cheek. “Safety first. And you know, added benefit of your sister holding a discussion with me and not my junk. She does understand the one-eyed monster doesn’t talk back, right?”

I snort, covering my nose. “You could have come in to get your shirt.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says in a tone sweet enough to melt me into a rambling puddle of goo.

“Laurel’s not,” I stammer. “She doesn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s been sisters against the world—”

Cary puts his arm around my waist, cutting off my words with the lone action. He’s cognizant of what I’m trying to explain without me needing to go on.

“It’s ready!” Bhod calls as the waffle iron timer goes off.

“On my way, man.” The corners of his mouth lift responding to my son. Cary is quick to give Bhodi his attention.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can, but wait and show off those mad breakfast skills to your mom.” Cary takes my hand, pulling me along to the waffle making station. “Safety,” he remarks to me with a swagger in his step. Then he warns Bhodi, “Careful. It’s hot,” and I’m aware he’s the one not ready to let my son do this alone.

With steady assurances from Cary that he’s doing everything right, Bhodi’s got the perfect waffle plated. My son dips the ladle into the batter, adding more to the iron like a pro.

Emory hippity-hops over to Cary. He jumps her onto his hip and the three of them count down, waiting for the next waffle to finish cooking.

I tuck my upper half into the fridge, searching for the syrup, and when I pop out the nostalgic image of the three of them hits a place deep in my soul.

The players may not be what I’d envisioned, but this is what I’d thought my life would look like on a weekend morning.

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16

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“Take this. And this. And don’t forget this.” I load Bhodi’s flat forearms with camping equipment from the trunk of my car. The pile reaches above his head.

He turns around laughing, trying to steady it all, and takes a few paces toward the front steps like a tightrope walker.

“I’m kidding, Half-pint. Get back here.” I wave him to my side and pluck a few of the more precarious things off the pile.

Bhodi thanks me and yet somehow manages to drop three perfectly stacked items on the way to the door. With each goofy and apologetic glance over his shoulder to say sorry to me, I wind up tucking one more thing the kid has dropped under my armpit to bring inside.

I use the spare key to unlock the front door. By the time we hit the hallway, we’re poking jabs at one another and joking about silly things that happened on the big brother camp out.

We had a ton of fun during the overnight at a local lake. The boys swam and we played baseball, hiked, and fished off of a dock. There were s’mores around a fire pit before the dog-tired and grubby kids hunkered down in their sleeping bags. Which reminds me…

“Dude, hit the shower before your Aunt Laurel gets on you.”

Bhodi’s dumped his belongings on the couch and is on a return trip to the car for more. His lip curls in disgust, but I’m pretty sure he’s nose blind to himself like all the other pre-pubescent boys were.

Was I like this? Probably.

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