“I know that look.” Nash shook his head as I double wrapped the tie around my waist.
Furrowing my brows, I busied myself unpacking the new shipment of paint thinners that had arrived during the morning delivery. “What look? I don’t have a look. There’s no look.”
Well, that doesn’t sound suspicious at all.
“Uh-huh.” My brother smirked, his trademark platinum blond hair falling in a chunk over his left eye. He leaned in front of me, pressing his hands over the box I frantically emptied. “That, dear sister, is the freshly-fucked look. It’s a blinking neon light all over your face.”
“Nash!” My mouth dropped open, heat staining my cheeks.
He chuckled and reached into the paint box to help me unload. “Not that I want to hear about my little sister’s sex life.” His face twisted into a grimace as if he’d just smelled something rotten. “Actually, keep the details to yourself. But can you please send the booty calls home half an hour earlier? It’s impossible to sign for deliveries and man the counter at the same time.”
Guilt washed over me as we worked in silence. I wanted to say something to ease the tension, but anything I said would sound like hollow promises. If I was honest with myself, that’s exactly what they were anyway. Every time I rolled into the hardware store late for my shift, I’d apologize and swear it wouldn’t happen again. Every time, Nash would nod, knowing damn well I was full of shit. The one consistent thing my family could rely on was my unreliability.
I could handle most anything, except for Nash’s silence.
He chewed on his lower lip, concentrating on holding as many paint cans as he could in each hand, as his forearms strained with the weight. The unruly chunk of hair fell into his eyes again, and he attempted to blow it away with a harsh breath. I laughed as it flopped right back down.
“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Licking my palm, I reached across the box and slicked the pale chunk across his forehead. It was a move I’d done hundreds of times when we were kids.
Old habits die hard.
“You need a haircut, toe head.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s disgusting. Keep your spit to yourself, Cherry Pop.”
Insulting each other’s hair had been our thing since my ex-husband sent me running to the hair dye aisle, half-crazed. I smiled to myself, remembering the moment Nash first saw my shocking, bright red hair. He’d laughed himself to tears, claiming I looked like a cherry popsicle. The name stuck, and for the better part of a year, I’d been Cherry Pop. Siblings were just assholes like that.
Everyone around me swore I’d lost my mind, going from a natural blonde to a very unnatural stop sign redhead. Nash just smirked and left a twelve pack of melting red popsicles in my mailbox the next day.
The morning passed into afternoon and while the hardware store saw enough foot traffic to break even, hoping for a profit seemed laughable.
Watching my brother repeatedly rearrange a wall of washers, I drummed my nails on the register. “Have you heard from Dad?” I asked, my eyes trained on his methodical movements.
He paused as if contemplating the weight of my question, then resumed straightening the impeccably straight packages. “He’ll be in later this evening.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A hint of irritation seeped into his voice. “Let it go, Eden.”
Tap, Tap, Tap.
I continued drumming my nails. “Ihavelet it go. I let it go when you worked fourteen hour shifts all week. And the week before that…and the week before that.” Nash’s back stiffened as I pushed away from the counter and took a few steps toward him. “I let it go when you left the community center for a couple weeks until Dad could find some help to ease the load. How long ago was that, Nash—three weeks? A month? Or has it been so long that you can’t remember?”
“I said, stop.”
My brain heard him. It sent a clear message to my mouth to shut up. However, my insatiable need to push the envelope informed my mouth that it was clear for takeoff, and it barreled down the runway on a suicide mission.
“And I let it go when that second job he’s been so tired from working all the time called and asked why he hadn’t bothered to show up for the past four days.”
A growl rose from the depths of my brother’s chest as his fist tightened around an entire row of washers. His knuckles whitened and the metal bar ripped from the display wall as he twisted toward me. “Goddamn it, Eden, I said that’s enough! He’s tired, all right? The man spent our entire lives doing right by us, by himself. Do you think you could stop acting like you’re the only one that’s ever had something bad happen and grow the fuck up?”
He’d might as well have slapped me across the face. I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing like a beached fish gasping for breath. Struggling for words, I reached out a tentative hand to him. “Nash, I…”
The chime of the bell over the door rang and a swoosh of air sucked the tension out of the room. Anger faded from Nash’s face, and the consummate professional took over. I fell in line behind him as he made a sweeping welcome gesture with open hands.
“Welcome to Lachey Hardware, gentlemen. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” He approached the two Latino men and engaged them in deep conversation, parading them from aisle to aisle.
