Page 77 of Sundown Somewhere

She lights up, taking another long sip, this one resonating as desired, her blue eyes sparkling as she puts it down. Right along with a smile that says one thing and one thing only. She wants something.

Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she flips it toward me, the screen filled with a very familiar scene. A little white house, this one two levels with an angled roof, dormers, and large wraparound porch, sitting in the middle of a large, lush field.

“Add it to the—” I start, my response on autopilot, but she cuts me off.

“I already put it in the folder. But, the pond—how much trouble would that be?”

Okay, that’s a new question…

I look closer, and sure enough, there’s a large pond off to the side. This isn’t the first of these kinds of houses that she’s saved that includes some weird feature, especially in the landscaping. The computer-generated ones get really weird at times. Last fall she even found one that had a pool made to look like a pond. But this one is an actual pond—evidenced by the spots of orange in the water, representing what I assume to be koi.

“No idea, never dug a pond.”

“But, like, it’s possible?”

For you, Dolly, anything…

I keep that response to myself. This is not the moment to go there. I’ve already told her I’m in this, but standing in the middle of my older brother’s bar, surrounded by a handful of my other brothers, is not the moment to tell her that I will literally dig her a pond with my bare hands if that is what she fucking wants.

“People have ponds, so it’s not impossible,” I improvise. I can’t bear to tell her no. Or even imply it. “But that’s probably a Keller Landscaping question.”

I make a mental note to ask Nash or his twin, Noel, about the basics of ponds and how much trouble I’m about to get myself into. Because I have no doubt that a pond—both its creation and upkeep—is three different kinds of a headache. The smile spreading across Dolly’s face, though, is worth it.

“Noted.” Slipping her phone in her back pocket, she lifts her beer in salute to Milo, then grabs my hand, pulling me away from the bar. “C’mon, I’m hungry, and they have chicken bacon ranch fries. Share some with me? Please?”

“Always.”

“Whis-chaa!” Anton imitates the sound of a whip, and out of the corner of my eye I see him flip his wrist to match the sound. For a split second I consider turning around to give him a single finger salute, but he’s not worth it. My attention is better spent on her.

A loud crack cuts through the air, followed by an “ow!” making both Dolly and me stop, turning back to my brothers. Anton is rubbing his neck, looking at Milo like he just kicked his puppy, Jace and Ewan not bothering to hide their amusement.

“What was that for?”

“Fuck around and find out, kid!” Milo tells him, tossing his towel back over his shoulder.

Wrapping an arm around Dolly, I tug her in close, leaning down to whisper so only she can hear. “Today, Milo’s my favorite.”

Twenty minutes later—a tray full of chicken bacon ranch fries, onion rings, goat cheese fritters, and the promise of returning for deep fried Oreos for dessert—we settle at a table under the picnic shelter. Much to my disappointment, thanks to Gus and Margeaux taking up most of one bench and Nash and Willa the other, Dolly and I end up across from each other. I’d much rather have her snuggled up next to me so I could discreetly rest my hand on her thigh as we ate, but this is probably better. If she were next to me, there’s a damn good chance that I wouldn’t behave, and then we’d be a lot more on display, igniting more than a few whispers. In this position, we look like the same pair of besties we’ve always been, working our way toward clogged arteries.

“How’s the menu revamp coming?” Margeaux asks, taking a sip of her beer. “Did you decide if you want any of Papa Duck’s recipes?”

Dolly starts to respond but is cut off, my sister’s voice sharp enough to stop traffic.

“Wait, what? You’re changing the menu?”

Dolly nods, a bright smile taking over. Pride and excitement radiate off her, almost making her glitter—like those vampires in those movies she made me sit through—under the Edison bulbs strung along the beams of the shelter.

“I am. It’s time. I’m actually going to soft launch the first version of the new menu this weekend.”

“You’re not going to clean the griddle though, right?” Gus asks, giving us a serious look.

“I clean the griddle regularly.”

“Do you though?”

My head snaps to my right, shooting him a look. For fuck’s sake. It’s been a long-running joke in our family that the griddle at Dolly’s has never been cleaned and that’s why everything off it is so good. Because like any good Southern cast iron skillet, it’s been seasoned perfectly over the decades from everything that’s been cooked on it.

That said, I know she cleans it. I’ve witnessed it. It’s a health and safety requirement in order for her to maintain her A rating from the state that she very proudly posts in the front window for everyone to see. She also goes to great lengths to keep it properly seasoned—because my girl knows what she’s doing when it comes to Southern home cooking.