Page 83 of Small Town Boy

“I’d like to say that after this incident, we taught the boys how to shoot, but the moms stuck by their double digit rule,” he finishes.

“Is there a song about this too?” Bronwyn asks.

“No, because then Dustin would have to admit he was cowering in a tent,” Nash replies. “Although, make a mental note that we should add this to the stories we roast him with during his bachelor party.”

“What about you, Bronwyn? Favorite summer memory as a kid?” Mama asks, trying to regain control of the conversation.

“Fourth of July, hands down. My parents loved the Boston Pops, so we would always head down to the open-air amphitheater on the Charles River to hear them play, then watch the fireworks. Mom used to make a big thing of it, packing a picnic, and we’d spend the day hanging out and relaxing in the sun. Sometimes I brought a friend, and sometimes it was just the three of us, but I looked forward to it every year.” Bronwyn pauses, letting out a sigh. “I tried going that first summer, right after my parents passed, but it wasn’t the same. I haven’t been since.”

The sorrow in her voice is a punch to the gut. Dropping my fork, I start to reach over to take her hand, but then I notice Mama beat me to it. I swallow hard, a feeling I can’t name hitting me as I watch the two women who mean the most to me clasping hands, their eyes shiny.

“I lost my parents when I was young as well. Not as young as you, but young enough that I understand that you still feel more than a little cheated out of getting to know them as an adult. Neither of them got to meet the twins, which is the hardest part for me, I think.”

Realization hits me upside the head, leaving me feeling stupid. Of course today was a weird day for her. We’re less than a week from a big family holiday—she misses her parents. Not to mention the full week she has coming up with the Gobble Wobble. How did I miss that? Won’t be getting the good boyfriend award today, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, it’s little things. Like, the whole Friendsgiving thing next week. I have no idea what to make. I have my mom’s recipe box, but no real knowledge to go with it about what was good versus just okay, or what worked well for a group.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to help!” Mama says. “If I’m not overstepping!”

Bronwyn perks up, and this is the point where I know I’ve lost her. At least for a little bit. Which is more than okay with me. I sit back and let the conversation around me unfold—Mama and Bronwyn talking about how she was assigned an appetizer and what kind of food everyone in the group likes, while the men slide into the proper way to prepare the main course.

“We’re sticking with fried this year. It’s the easiest, fastest, tastes damn good. As long as I’m in charge of it, I don’t see why you’d go another route,” Nash says.

“Because a good, slow smoked bird can’t be beat. I understand the beauty of frying, but someday, son, you will learn that sometimes playing the long game yields the best results. And that applies to more than meat.” Dad gives Nash a pointed look, and I’m sure I’m missing something.

Muttering something under his breath that I don’t quite catch, my twin shifts grumpily in his seat, taking a big bite of potatoes. Pops simply laughs, also clearly not in on the secret meaning.

I turn my focus back to eating, contentness settling in. Because this is what a Friday night should feel like. Surrounded by the ones I love the most, at ease with the world. Nothing else to do but sit and eat, talk, laugh, and enjoy each other’s company.

Looking over at Bronwyn, I can see she’s relaxed some since she started talking with Mama. She’s still not totally herself; something is bothering her. But maybe it’s what she said earlier—just a weird day. Which makes sense. Whatever it is though, I’ll make sure that her tension is gone before we head to bed.

“Are y’all still talking about meat?” Mama asks, rejoining the group.

“We’re damn proud of our meat,” Nash retorts.

“Nash Elijah Keller!”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You always mean it like that,” I point out.

“Touché.”

Turning to Bronwyn, I reach over and place my hand on her thigh, sliding inside. Her breath hitches ever so quietly, making my pulse jump. Hopefully no one else heard that. I don’t need the same scolding as Nash just got.

“Did you decide on something?”

“Not yet,” she says. “But I think I have some ideas. I’m going to send some pictures of the recipe cards to your mom and go from there.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get y’all sorted. You won’t have a bad Friendsgiving.”

“You know, Mama,” Nash starts, his voice full of a bad idea. Dear lord, please keep him reined in. “You could give her your deviled eggs recipe.”

Oh…well, that’s an ask. Not nearly as much of a troublemaking one as I thought based on his tone, but still one that isn’t going to get a positive response.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Mama sasses back. “While we’re at it, why don’t y’all also ask Bronwyn to bring a dessert, so I can share with her the peach pound cake?”

“I mean, if you’re offering.”