Marcus attempted a clarification. "What he means is that Mom once didn't speak to Matthew for three days when he went on that keto diet."
"It wasn't the diet. He brought that horrible cauliflower bread to Sunday dinner in my house. I raised him better than that."
Matthew groaned. "One time! It was one time!"
"And we'll never let you forget it." Miles grinned and reached up to wrap an arm around Matthew's shoulders.
I stepped inside, and the door closed behind me with a familiar creak. Everything was so utterly normal. The house smelled the same, and the floorboards groaned in the same places. My brothers fought over the same stupid things.
Mom called over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen. "Take his coat, and then both of you, wash your hands. Dinner's almost ready."
Alex whispered to me. "She's intense."
"You have no idea. Wait until she starts asking about your childhood medical history."
"My what?"
"She does this thing where—"
Mom called from the kitchen. "So, Alex, Marcus here says you're a professor."
He looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged.
Alex laughed nervously. "I teach history at Seattle U, American and European, mostly."
"A professor!" Mom appeared in the doorway, beaming. "Finally, someone with sense in this house. You know, I always said Michael should have gone to college. His test scores were—"
I interrupted. "Mom, can we not do this right now?"
She studied my face for a moment and then nodded. "Fine, but Alex, you'll have to tell me all about your work over dinner. It sounds fascinating."
As we moved toward the kitchen, Marcus fell into step beside me. His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear.
"You doing okay?"
The simple question caught me off guard. He didn't demand an explanation. It was merely concern.
"Getting there." It was an honest answer.
"Good. And Alex...?"
"Is helping."
"Then I'm glad you brought him."
The kitchen erupted into chaos the moment we entered. A pot boiled over on the stove, hissing against the burner. Miles had hijacked the small Bluetooth speaker in the corner, blasting Pearl Jam's "Even Flow" while dramatically miming a guitar solo with a wooden spoon.
"You all eat like wolves and leave me to clean up!" Mom shouted over the cacophony, sliding a massive casserole dish from the oven. The rich aroma of her signature lasagna filled the air—layered with spicy Italian sausage, three cheeses, and the secret ingredient she refused to share even with her sons.
The kitchen was barely large enough for all of us. We bumped both hips and shoulders.
Mom proudly carried the food to the ancient wood table that had survived four rambunctious boys. She'd prepared three different side dishes that she only made when she worried about someone.
Alex froze in the doorway, eyes wide like he'd stepped into a foreign country without a phrase book. I recognized the look—overwhelmed and processing too much data with no clear protocol.
I slipped my hand around his waist, tugging him gently forward.
"Come on," I whispered close to his ear, "or you'll get eaten alive."
