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Herman scoffs. “I don’t think Holt knows this. I doubt he’s had any part in this decision.”

“Is he here, Pop?” Tate demands. Herman blanches and Elise dips her head. “Is he here?”

“He’s going pro,” Herman grits.

“So, Faye is supposed to table her wants to accommodate Holt’s dreams? Is that what you’re saying?”

The red in Herman’s neck climbs into his face. It’s the same red in Tate’s face. He sputters, “N-no.”

“Then what are you saying?” Tate’s pitch rises. “Because that’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“She was with your little brother first. You’re just going to swoop in⁠—”

“I saw her first. He swooped in on me first!”

I flinch, because buried deep down in the very dark of the darkest, most brutal truths, I know it’s fact.

Elise straightens her shoulders as she moves between her husband and her son. “Enough. Tate is right. This is their life, Herman.” Her eyes cut to me before shifting away. “If Holt wanted to be here, if he wanted to fight for her, he would be here. We all know how he fights for what he wants.”

Her truth nearly takes me to my knees. Somehow, I remain standing as our little circle falls utterly silent as everyone digests Elise’s words.

Mom speaks, breaking the silence like ice. “Everyone likes a spare room. It’s not a spare room without a bed, now, is it?” She touches Dad’s shoulder. “What do you say you and Tate bring Faye’s bed down so we can get everything moved into the apartment?”

Dad looks like he wants to refuse, like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he nods instead. Together, Dad and Tate disappear into the house.

9

CULINARY PERFECTION

SEPTEMBER 2009 – 18 YEARS OLD

Akey rattles in the door before it swings open, and Tate enters. It’s the first time since I moved in a week ago that he’s come home after work to me awake. I’ve been dog tired after my shifts at Foster’s Gear. Seriously, there’s nothing like first trimester exhaustion, but the doc says it’s normal, so I roll with it.

Today, though, I’ve got a craving for tacos. But not just any taco.

“Hey,” I call as I pause to stir the ground beef in the pan before I continue chopping dill pickles.

Tate works at the laces of his work boots, peering at me curiously where I mosey around in the narrow galley kitchen. “You’re awake.”

“I think if I eat any more pizza this week, I might die.” I shoot him a smile. “Figured I’d cook.”

“Fair enough.” He places his boots in the closet, but not before shoving dryer sheets into the stink bombs. This is his remedy after I woke up my second day living with him, convinced I was going to vomit from the stench of smelly man-feet.

I’m pretty sure that pregnancy also makes the nose sensitive because never once in all my years has the scent of work boots sent me fleeing to dry heave into the toilet.

Tate leans against the counter, crossing thick arms over his chest. It’s impossible not to notice that he’s filled out over the last couple years since he’s been working construction full time for Herman.

Where Holt was lean, Tate has a thickness about him.

I ignore the pinch in my chest as I push the pickles into a bowl. I had a good day today and I don’t want to tarnish it with thoughts of him.

I nab the onion, shucking the skin and setting to chopping it into fine cubes.

Tate inches closer. The smell of man and musk and Tate’s faint cologne—or is it his deodorant?—assault me.

“What’re you making?”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the taste of his scent. “Tacos.”