Page 14 of Pour Decisions
“Should I not let him outside next time?” she asks slowly, adjusting her hair where it’s in a loose bun on top of her head. “He was scratching at the door.”
“It’s fine.” I run a hand through my hair.
“So…” She scans my body, eyes lingering on my chest and shoulders. My whole body flushes with heat, even though she could just be looking at me rather than checking me out. “Is it fine that I’m out here?”
“It’s fine. It’s all fine.” I scratch at my beard. “Just…whatever.”
“Okay?” Her brows furrow and she shifts positions, going back to her stretches. I go back inside.
I finally pour myself coffee. Will it make me magically normal around her? What the fuck am I doing? I don’t even have a game plan for once in my life. All I know is she’s not married and she still (rightfully) hates me. Throw in the fact that she’s my physical therapist, and I should really rethink my most recent actions.
Once I have my coffee, I retreat to my office to do some work before I have to go to my parents’ house. It’s Wes and Waylon’s birthday, so we’re having Sunday brunch with our family. The twins had their annual party last night at their house, which they invited me to—just to be polite, probably.
When they were younger, their party was way too much—everyone getting drunk and blasting music. Now it sounds like a much more low-key event, but I still don’t go. They’re not that much younger than me—just four years—but the gap between me and all of my brothers feels too big to shorten at this point.
I manage to tell Katrina I’m heading out for a while without making an ass of myself. I get Bubba in the car and drive over to my parents’ house.
They moved into this house toward the end of my time in high school. It’s a big house on an even bigger plot of land. I’m not sure why they chose to upsize a few years before they became empty nesters, but if Mom’s very open desire for grandchildren is any indication, she’s planning on having a lot of the family over. For now, she hosts almost every event on either side of the family. Our families are large on both sides, so she gets to flex her hosting skills often.
Bubba rushes up the front steps ahead of me, meeting my parents’ labrador, Lady, on the front porch. They were littermates, and Bubba practically tackles Lady. Before I can pet her, Wes and Waylon’s dogs, Murphy and Duke, join the chaos. They scramble down the stairs, near one of my mom’s flower bushes.
“Don’t you dare, Bubba,” I say as Bubba starts to sniff one bush dotted with butterflies. “Don’t.”
Bubba looks at me, then at the bush, then pretends he didn’t hear me. He slurps down a butterfly like it’s a potato chip, then another, before I can shoo him back up the stairs with the other dogs.
I have no fucking idea why he loves to eat butterflies. Moths? Too plebeian for him to nibble on. Ants? Doesn’t see them. Spiders? Fun little friends.
But butterflies? Maybe one wronged him in a past life, because he can’t get enough of eating them. I think they caughton that my yard isn’t a place to build a cocoon because he eats them whenever they’re even close to where he lounges.
Now that Bubba has had his butterfly fill, he stands directly in the way of me getting inside, along with the other dogs.
“Let him inside,” Waylon says, appearing in the open doorway. Like magic, the dogs obey and make a path. “Hey.”
“Hey. Happy birthday.” I glance at the tiny Pomeranian in his arms, his fiancée, Bianca’s, dog Sadie. The dog is passed out asleep with her tongue poking out, like nothing is happening around her.
But Waylon seems a bit on edge, and the laugh floating from the living room confirms why.
“Ash is here?” I ask, unable to keep the contempt out of my voice. “For your birthday?”
My other younger brother, Ash, has been a pain in my ass ever since I’ve had memories. Usually he’s off doing whatever the fuck he does with his band and only comes around to bother me on holidays or important events like Wes’s wedding last year.
“He was in Nashville?” Waylon shrugs.
Wes and Waylon actually get along with Ash, so I’m not surprised that they told him to come. It’s their birthday, so my irritation with Ash is secondary.
“Why was that a question?” I ask.
“Because he rarely is.” He glances over his shoulder and shrugs again.
That’s true—I’m sure he has more reasons to go to Nashville than most, but he rarely ever swings by Jepsen when he’s there.
I hold in a sigh and head to the living room to rip off the Ash bandage. I find him, Wes, and Rose sitting on the couch, laughing at something on Rose’s phone. Wes and Rose look up at me with a friendly nod, but Ash looks up at me with a smirk like he knows his presence alone is pissing me off.
He’s right.
It’s a little absurd, yes, since he hasn’t done anything. But he will. It’s a given at this point.
“Hey, happy birthday,” I say to Wes and Rose.
