Broken Beautiful Hearts(45)

Christian shakes the bag over his mouth before returning it to the pantry. He notices Cam walking toward the long farmhouse table, and he tries to rush past him. Cam catches on and grabs the back of his brother’s shirt to stop him, but Christian is faster and he shoves Cam against the fridge.

Dutch raises his head from his spot underneath the kitchen table. Nothing fazes the bloodhound.

Cam regains his balance. “You’re going to pull a punk move like that when I’m not paying attention?”

“Stay sharp, boy!” Christian yells back in an exaggerated Southern accent and a clipped tone.

“You’d better hope Coach doesn’t catch you imitating him. He’ll have you doing push-ups until your wrists break,” Cam warns.

“That’s enough,” Hawk says, opening the oven. “Sit your tails down. And if one of you breaks my fridge, you’ll spend the spring mowing lawns to replace it.”

“That’ll give Christian something to look forward to,” Cam says, following me to the table. He pulls out a ladder-back chair for me at one end and drops into the chair beside it.

I gesture at the chair. “I’m not sitting at the head of the table. One of you should sit here.”

Christian takes a seat across from his brother. “We’re not allowed. House rules.”

Hawk looks over his shoulder at us. “Don’t make me sound like a drill sergeant. Go ahead and tell her why.”

“We used to fight over that spot,” Christian explains.

“Which always turned into a wrestling match,” Cam says.

Christian shrugs. “One night we broke some dishes.”

“Is that the way you tell it?” Hawk shakes his head and pulls a large foil pan out of the oven. “These two were rolling around and bumped right into their mother.”

The Twins exchange embarrassed looks, and Hawk continues, “She dropped the Thanksgiving ham on the floor, platter and all. A Southern woman takes pride in four things—her kids, her appearance, her house, and her cooking. I thought she was going to put you both over her knee.”

“How old were you?” I ask the Twins.

“Eight, maybe?” Christian guesses.

“Seven,” Cam corrects him. “It was the year before…”

Their mom died.

Nobody wants to say it.

“Right.” Christian’s eyes cloud over for a moment, then he snaps out of it. “For the record, Cam started it.”

Hawk carries two huge aluminum foil pans to the table and places them in the center. He makes another trip to grab biscuits, a ready-to-eat bag of salad, a glass bowl, and two bottles of salad dressing. The aluminum pans, extra-crunchy fried chicken, and breadcrumb-dusted mac and cheese look familiar, and I realize they’re Stouffer’s frozen dinners.

Stouffer’s mac and cheese was a mainstay at Tess’ house. I’ve eaten the fried chicken at plenty of potluck dinners, but never at home.

Before Dad died, he did all the cooking and nothing came out of a freezer pan. After we lost him, I took over the cooking. Resorting to frozen food would’ve been another reminder that he was gone—that everything in Mom’s life and mine had changed. I wonder if it felt that way to Hawk and the Twins.

It’s easy to forget that my cousins know how it feels to lose a parent, too.

Hawk rips open the salad bag and dumps it into the glass bowl. “Go ahead and eat.”

No one reaches for the food. Are the Twins thinking about their mom?

“You like fried chicken?” Christian picks up the pan and holds it out to me.

“Yes.” I take two legs and set them on my plate. “Thanks.”

The moment the crispy brown coating touches my plate, the Twins descend on the pan like locusts. Water glasses wobble and silverware clinks as they reach across the table in a rush to fill their plates. Christian grabs four pieces of chicken and digs into the mac and cheese, serving himself three heaping spoonfuls. Cam shakes the bread basket above his plate as if he’s planning to empty it.

Hawk rescues the biscuits before they disappear and offers the basket to me. “Help yourself.”

Now I know why they didn’t serve themselves right away. They were waiting for me.

Is it because I’m a girl or a guest? I want to ask, but it seems rude to lecture them about gender equality when Hawk just made me dinner.

For ten minutes, nobody says a word. Hawk and I eat at a normal pace, while the boys wolf down the family-size portions that are probably designed to feed ten people. They finally slow down after they kill what’s left of the mac and cheese.

“We heard Titan was acting like an ass in the hall this morning before second period. Why didn’t you say something?” Cam asks, watching me over the chicken leg he’s eating.

“Because I handled it.”

Christian stabs a biscuit with the butter knife. “We warned Titan not to pull any of his Romeo bullshit with you.”

“Language,” Hawk says.

“Sorry, Pop.” Christian tears the biscuit in half and slathers it with butter, as if the conversation is over.

Hawk puts down his fork. “Does someone want to fill me in?”

I glare at Cam. “Nothing happened.”

Christian snorts. “Yeah … Well, I nailed Titan at practice so that nothing won’t happen again.”