“Sar-aaah,” Sam drawled lasciviously, somehow making my sister’s name sound suggestive through his mouthguard.
Dickhead.
“She miss me?” Sam continued to shuffle around me as I tried a sloppy attack that he easily sidestepped. Then he got me right on the cheek.
“Don’t leave yourself so open, Jace!” Vick yelled. I swear that guy had eyes in the back of his head. I shuffled back and held up my hands for a break.
“The day my older sister thinks of you as anything more than the annoying kid who attacked her with water balloons when she’d come home from college, will be a cold day in hell,” I gritted out, grabbing my water at the side of the ring.
“Prepare to buy a scarf. But back to this weekend,” Sam said. “The lady whose kid it is requested a clown. Do you know how hard it’s been to find one that’s not creepy?”
“Why can’t you do it? A little face paint, goofy grin. You’d be great,” I deadpanned. We both knew Sam would be the worst. In his one and only high school theater performance Sam forgot his only speaking line.
“Funny. Come on, I’m desperate.”
I wasn’t the worst option he’d have for a clown. I was decent at acting and had spent my entire eighth-grade year perfecting a magician act I still had memorized to this day.
“I don’t know . . .” I trailed off, but Sam, of course, sensed an opening.
“You’d be helping me out of a tight spot. I’ll get you the costume. You can keep all the profits!”
“If I’m dressing up as a clown, you better believe I’m keeping all the money I make.” I huffed out a breath. “Fine. But this is not going on the website. It’s a onetime deal, got it?”
Sam saluted. “You got it. I’ll even keep your romance reading under wraps, Romeo.”
Vick came up behind Sam just then and raised his eyebrows to us.
“I don’t want to know.”
* * *
Both of my parents’ cars were in the garage when I arrived home that afternoon. My parents’ being home wasn’t unusual for a Sunday. It wasn’t unusual for any day of the week. I could count on one hand the number of times they’d traveled out of the state over the last ten years.
After parking in the driveway, I waved over to our next-door neighbor Mrs. James, who was watering flowers. She and her husband, the now-retired county sheriff, have lived next door to us my entire life. Their son, Jackson James, who was now the current county sheriff, lived across town with his wife, Rae. During my high school years, Jackson had become an older brother figure of sorts to me, more so than my actual older brother had ever been.
I found momma in the kitchen chopping carrots for the roast chicken she made every Sunday. She was a great cook, a trait I unfortunately did not inherit. The kitchen’s green floral wallpaper was original to the house, which was built in the seventies, along with the dark wood paneling and green laminate countertops that were the same as in my youth. Momma hadn’t changed much either, horn-rimmed glasses, dark pants and a button-down blouse with an apron atop it was how I’d typically seen her growing up. Except for the color of her hair, which was now a light gray, her hair was still in the same style, cut to her chin.
“Smells good.” I came over and kissed the top of her head, then teased her by looking all confused at the cutting board. “Whatcha makin’?”
She eyed me over the rims of her glasses. “Roast chicken.”
“Can’t say I ever had one of those,” I joked, sneaking a carrot and backing up as she made atsssnoise through her teeth.
“Need any help?”
She paused her chopping to look up at me and smirked. “Not from your smart mouth.”
I smiled, loving when she joked around. Momma was typically on the reserved side, with a large helping of anxiety.
I’d always felt different than the rest of my family members. My parents were both retired accountants, my brother was a CPA in Florida who did real estate on the side, and my sister worked as a lawyer in Chicago. They all had stable jobs, content with working in an office their entire lives. I, on the other hand, hated the idea of an office job. I didn’t want to do something, just to do something. I wanted to be passionate about it.
“You still picking up Sarah at the airport on Friday?” my momma asked.
The implication being I’d forget. Which irked me because she should know I always follow through on my commitments. Still, I assured my momma I’d pick up my sister.
I really shouldn’t complain; my parents were great. Growing up, Pop was busy but attended every home baseball game and theater performance of mine. Momma and I got along for the most part, too, though since I dropped out of college, there’d been an undercurrent of tension between us. I tried to tell myself it stemmed from worry, not disappointment.
“I wish Sarah was coming in earlier. The Front Porch wouldn’t make a reservation this early, but I’d like to eat by six. And you know your daddy doesn’t like to wait for a table. Maybe we should go out to dinner for a meat and three somewhere in Knoxville instead. . .” Momma trailed off, talking as much to herself as to me. She was the one who didn’t like waiting for a table. But as much as I tried to calm her spinning thoughts, nothing seemed to help except lending a listening ear and patience.
