Christian sets the bags down with military precision. Nothing rolls. Nothing tips. Everything in perfect alignment.
“Group text. Complete with yoga pose emojis.” He pulls out flour, sugar, and other baking supplies. “Mama’s birthday donuts await, big brother. Time to get your mind off your impending spiritual awakening.”
“Alright,” he mutters, rolling up his sleeves, “Mama said powdered sugar, not store-bought glaze this time. So we’re doing this old school.”
I raise an eyebrow as he pulls out flour, eggs, and a dozen other ingredients I couldn’t name even under oath. “You know mostMarines unwind by hitting the gym, not deep-frying dough in their brother’s kitchen, right?”
Christian shrugs, already reaching for the mixing bowls. “Sure, but Mama says homemade donuts taste like love.”
“And you believe her?”
He glances at me, smirking like he’s already won this argument. “I believe in not disappointing the woman who taught me how to throw a right hook.”
Christian starts measuring flour. “And I promised her you'd help me not burn down the kitchen this time.”
“Fine,” I concede, washing my hands. “But if you mention yoga again, I'm dumping flour on your head.”
We work in an easy silence, broken only by the soft clink of utensils and the rhythmic whisking of batter. The smell of vanilla and something warm begins to sneak into the air. Then the back door slides open with a whoosh, and in strolls Lily in a bikini, towel slung over her shoulder and the confidence of someone who’s been eavesdropping the entire time.
“Namaste, brother,” she says with a straight face, hands pressed together like she’s about to bless me with a crystal.
I flick water at her. “Not you too.”
She laughs, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “I'm actually proud of you. Maybe yoga will help with that stick up your ass, too.”
“There's no stick up my ass,” I grumble.
“Please,” Lily scoffs. “You haven't had fun in years. It's all rodeo, work, meaningless hookups, repeat.”
Christian whispers dramatically, “She's right, you know.”
I point a wooden spoon at him. “Less commentary, more mixing.”
Lily heads for the deck. “I'll be sunbathing if you need yoga pose suggestions.”
After she leaves, Christian turns the mixer to high, sending flour flying everywhere.
“For fuck's sake!” I lunge for the dial, turning it down. “This is why Mama doesn't trust you alone with appliances.”
“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. He glances at the sink, then pours leftover cooking oil straight down the drain.
“What are you doing?” I grab his wrist but it’s too late. “You can't put that much oil down the sink!”
Christian blinks at me. “Why not?”
“Because it solidifies in the pipes!” I explain, exasperated. “Remember the great Christmas clog of 2019?”
“That wasn't my fault,” he protests.
“The plumber found an entire stick of butter in the pipe.”
Christian shrugs. “It slipped.”
I shake my head, turning on hot water to flush the drain. “If this causes problems, you're dealing with it.”
“Fine, but can we get back to more important topics? Like how your yoga class is tomorrow morning at the Portree Gym, and hot Annie from the coffee shop is the instructor.”
I freeze. “How do you know my class schedule?”
