Page 7 of All In

“Do you think I can have new luggage delivered?” I ask.

“You can have pretty much anything delivered. Except hot men. I tried once. It didn’t work.”

“That’s what fictional boyfriends are for.”

“Exactly!”

chapter

two

Leo

There are few things in life genuinely, unconditionally better than breakfast at Ruthie’s.

The coffee is strong enough to wake the dead. The bacon is thick-cut and arrives on the plate still crackling. The biscuits are made from scratch every morning at five a.m. by a woman named Dottie who has never once in forty years of biscuit-making consulted a recipe, because the recipe, I’m pretty sure, comes straight from her DNA. And they are what my Granny would’ve said was, “slap your Mama” good.

If you get here early enough, meaning before seven, Ruthie herself might materialize at your elbow without warning and call you sweetheart while she tops off your coffee. Then she’ll somehow convince you that you need a slice of pie despite the fact that the sun hasn’t even fully risen in the sky.

It’ll be worth it, though, because Ruthie’s pies are legendary.

Unfortunately, I’m sharing my booth with two of my cousins, Oliver and Henry, and evidently, they’re very anti-pie this early in the morning.

Which feels wrong on every level.

“I just want to go on the record saying it is never too early or too late for pie,” I say.

“You’re wearing that?” Oliver asks, ignoring my pie rant.

He says it the way people say there’s been an accident. Grave. Mildly horrified. Braced for impact.

I look down at my t-shirt. Black. Soft from about a hundred washes. Features LEGO minifigs of Hobbits and a wizard across the front, and it says: Mordor Fun Run. It’s comfortable and hilarious. I fail to see the problem.

“Yes.” I take a bit of my omelet and chew thoughtfully. “What’s wrong with it?”

Oliver glances down at my shirt, then back at my face. He points his fork at me. “You look like a fourteen-year-old.”

Henry glances up from his pancakes, a short stack of blueberry with chopped pecans topped with homemade blueberry compote. He considers me for a minute, then looks back at his brother.

“Give him some credit, Ol.”

It’s on my lips to thank my older cousin, but then Henry smirks. “He looks at least sixteen.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter. “You two suck. I would’ve thought being in love and married would have made y’all nicer.”

Oliver delivers another fork point. “Incorrect. Payton is the nice one. Though I am nice to my Cora.”

“I’d like everyone to remember that I am a grown man. A grown man who owns a company. Not only that, someday y’all will be jealous of my youthful good looks.”

“Debatable,” Oliver says.

“The man part or the company part?” Henry asks.

“The grown part.”

“You’re just jealous,” I say, “because I know how to have fun.”

“Fun,” Oliver says, with the weary conviction of a man who has repeated this position many times, “is overrated.”