3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I SWALLOW

For the duration of the ride to Fletcher Family Vineyard, Rivers droned on about the muscadine grape and its many uses. When we pulled up to the iron gates, Rivers opened the keypad case and smashed in the code like he had all the right in the world to do so. I gaped at him, unsure who the hell gave him free access to my family's home. Once he opened the gate, we drove down the quarter-mile driveway leading up to the three-story antebellum home.

"My God. It's like something out of a movie," Jordan said.

"Direct to DVD," I corrected. "That's the only place this shitshow of a film is going."

“Do you remember when I used to come out here and help pick muscadines every summer for pocket money?” Rivers asked, his voice sounding almost nostalgic. Of course, I remembered his summers there. Aunt Lurlene used to make me bring him iced tea when it would get really hot outside. Rivers would spend twenty minutes yammering about his daily haul as he picked grapes from the vine, when all I could do was stare at his body. The way his khakis clung to his ass, and how the fabric complemented his unnecessarily large bulge—the same bulge that’s been straining against his pants all morning.

“Of course, I remember,” I mumble. “I’m not suffering from memory loss, Rivers Rivera.”

He snickered. “Then I guess you remember that time I watched you audition for the cheer squad in high school, too.”

My eyes bulged, because I’d forgotten all about that. Apparently I was suffering from memory loss. I could still feel Rivers’ eyes on me, the way they had been during my tryout. At the time, I thought the look he gave me was his way of showing an interest, but after I did a particularly taxing leap, he was gone by the time I nailed the landing. I still believe I would have made the squad if his sudden disappearance hadn’t distracted me.

Rivers parked his truck in front of the house, right beside Aunt Lurlene's beige Lincoln Town Car. As soon as the truck came to a stop, I attempted to open the door, foiled once more when Rivers locked it from the driver's side.

"I'm not playing this game with you again, Rivers Rivera." For the second time that day, I reached across Rivers' lap and unlocked the truck from his side, my face dangerously close to his lips. Then, contact. It lasted less than two seconds, but it happened. His mouth. My cheek.

I could have slapped him for it.

With the door unlocked, I pulled away from Rivers, jerking the handle and shoving it open. I almost tripped during my descent, but managed to steady myself once my feet touched the ground. I wanted to ask him why the hell he needed jacked-up tires that lifted his truck to ungodly heights, but refrained. It was probably just compensation for a tiny—

"Dick," Jordan said, slapping the side of my arm from inside the truck. "Would it kill you to help me out of this thing? I'm not plummeting to the ground again. I almost broke my damn neck last time."

"Don't worry, kiddo," Rivers said as his door slammed shut behind him. Why the hell was he getting out? He'd done his part by dropping us off, his presence was no longer necessary.

He hoisted Jordan out of his seat with ease before setting him gently on the ground. I whirled around on my heel and marched toward the house, hoping he'd take the hint that he was welcome to leave. The arm River wrapped around my shoulder told me the only thing he would be taking was the last of my patience. I eased to the side, trying to dislodge his uninvited arm, but he just pulled me in even closer.

"Oh, for God's sake, Firecracker. It's not like I'm going to mount you on your auntie's lawn. You've gotta learn to loosen up a little."

"I'm loose," I said with a scoff. "I'm the loosest man you'll ever meet!"

Jordan laughed so hard he choked, and Rivers just stared at me with that same shit-eating grin he'd been giving me all morning.

"What? Why are you both staring at me like I've got two heads?" I said, which made Jordan laugh even harder, his voice loud like thunder. "What in the world is wrong with both of you?"

Rivers held up a hand, motioning for me to halt before slowly walking in a circle around me. His eyes were locked on my ass, and after cocking his head to the side, he crossed his arms against his chest and stared.

"What the hell are you doing?" I questioned.

"It doesn't look all that loose to me," he said, shrugging.

I whirled around, speed walking to the front porch, positively scandalized. As soon as I reached the steps that led up to the porch, I caught sight of Aunt Lurlene. She sat stoically on the porch swing, sipping a glass of iced tea, but if history was any indication, at least half of that tea was just tequila.

She was dressed to the nines in an autumn-themed cotillion gown. Festive waves of oranges and reds swirled around a sea of endless earth tones. She was, as usual, wearing one of her custom wigs, and I was overcome with a familiar urge to stow myself away in her wig closet. For that day's hairpiece selection, she wore a powder-blue bouffant, peppered with strategically placed cloth gardenias. Two slathers of sky-blue eyeshadow and a chunkily drawn stretch of eyeliner completed the look. As for the lilac-colored lipstick? Well, who the hell knew what she was thinking when she smeared on that shit. It matched nothing she was wearing. I couldn't really fault her. She hadn't had her token gay to help perfect her look. Not like when I was a child. Sure, she had my father, but he didn't really count. Yes, he was a homosexual, but the man's sense of style left much to be desired.

She'd always had a flair for fashion, but this seemed excessive, even for her. When I still lived at home, she'd often sing " You never know when you'll meet your next beau. Always best to give them a show, " anytime she'd planned on leaving the house. It must have latched itself into my subconscious, as I'd never left home looking less than camera-ready ever since.

"Goodness gracious," she said, stretching her arms out toward me, but making no effort to stand up. "Get over here, baby. I've been waiting to see you all morning." As soon as I was within arm's reach, I thought she might give me a welcoming hug. Aunt Lurlene, never one for physical displays of affection, did nothing but disappoint. In lieu of her love, she used her outstretched hands to straighten non-existent wrinkles from the fabric of my shirt. "Sun and stars, you sure did turn into a handsome little thing, didn't you?"

"You saw me three months ago in London," I reminded her, but all it did was earn me a nod.

"And it was as true then as it is now, Turnip."

"He sure turned into something ," Rivers said, leaning against one of the white columns on the porch, his arms folded against his chest. The way he was staring at me did nothing to calm my racing heart, which seemed to be beating a mile a minute. I'd need to ask Jordan to set up an appointment with a cardiologist when we got home, because my heart had been malfunctioning at every turn since we'd gotten into town. Unfortunately, Rivers hadn't taken the hint that his presence was no longer welcome, so I went for a more direct approach.

"Have a good evening, Rivers."

"You're leaving already, Mr. Mayor?" Aunt Lurlene cooed. "At least have a drink before you head out. It's got to be a hundred degrees out, and a growing boy needs to stay hydrated."

Jordan flashed me a supportive smile. Pulling out his phone, he powered on the screen and stared at it. "The weather app says it's eighty-three degrees, and he," he said, pointing at Rivers, "is clearly in his fifties. I’m pretty sure he stopped growing three decades ago."

"Thirty-six," Rivers said with a grin. "Same as Firecracker."

"For goodness' sake, you're not still calling yourself that, are you?" Aunt Lurlene said.

"You know I do," I muttered, staring at my shoes.

"And that silly accent, to boot. I don't know what on Earth we could have done to make you embarrassed of your family, but it sure does break my heart, whatever it was."

"You know it was nothing personal. We didn't have a say. Our manager picked the stage names for us."

"Yes," she huffed, "well, I don't think Brian O'Hare is much of a stage name. Or James King." I didn't want to get stuck in this battle again. Lord knew the entire family had voiced their displeasure countless times during Friendzone's heyday.

"I just used the name they told me to use, and it's what people know me as now. Changing it back wouldn't make any sense."

"No, I don’t think that’s what it is," she said, shaking her head. "Was it because I wouldn't let you wear my heels? I don't know how many times I have to tell you, it wasn't because you were a boy." She turned to Rivers, an apology heavy in her eyes. "It wasn't because he was gay, you see. I wasn't ashamed or anything. He just has an issue with"—craning her neck and peering into the distance as if she was seeking some invisible onlooker, she shelled her hands to the sides of her mouth and whispered two of the most treacherous words I'd ever heard—"foot odor."

"Oh my God," I groaned. "I do not!"

"I used to have to fill my shoes with baking soda, toe to heel. I'd let them settle for a week anytime he'd play dress up, but they were never the same after. Not truly."

"I hate my life. Every single second of it."

"And don't even get me started on my dressing gowns."

"Okay, we won't," Jordan said, attempting to assist me in my time of need.

"Please," Rivers prompted. "Do go on."

"Have you met my father, Riv? He has guns inside. Lots of them."

"He used to wear them when I was up in town," Aunt Lurlene continued. "I'd come home and find him twirling around in one of my silk robes, belting out 'I Feel Pretty' with that beautiful voice of his. It really is a shame he never got much of a chance to sing in his little band. I always said he could give Leon Richie a run for his money."

"Do you mean Lionel Richie?" Jordan said.

"No, dear. Leon Richie from the antique shop on the square. Real songbird, our little Leon."

"Leon's missing half his tongue," Rivers said. "He scares off half the customers when he's working. I went in trying to find something for Beau's birthday, and he followed me around, slurring out 'Man! I Feel Like a Woman' at the top of his lungs."

“Who the hell is Beau?” I ask.

"I always prefer when he does Broadway standards,” Aunt Lurlene points out. “But he does have a certain je ne sais quoi when he dabbles in contemporary pop," she agreed.

"I don't know if that's how I'd describe it. I had four petitions to exile him from Tallulah last week alone. But I don't even think I have the legal authority to exile someone." He turns and smiles at me. “Beau is my son. You’re going to love him.”

"Oh, sugar," she said, reaching out and taking Rivers' hand. "You can do anything you put your mind to. Just have to have a bit of faith in yourself. Take me, for instance. I have faith you'll stay for supper when I ask you to."

"We just ate," I said, hoping the glare I gave Rivers was enough to scare him off.

"You know, Mrs. Fletcher, I would love that." As he spoke to her, his eyes locked on mine, like he was staring into my soul. Good. Let him. My soul thought he was an arrogant little shit, and I hoped he found that lovely little morsel of truth and swallowed me whole.

IT!

The morsel! I wanted him to swallow the morsel whole. Not me. Jesus Christ, Phillip, get it together.

"Unfortunately, I'm going to have to take a raincheck. I've got plans with Beau tonight. Prep work for the festivities tomorrow." I wasn't sure who this Beau person was, but I was thankful to the mystery man for coming to my aid.

"Of course," she said, but I couldn't help but notice the disappointment in her eyes. I didn't know when this bizarre May-December friendship was forged between my great aunt and my archnemesis, but I didn't care for it in the slightest.

After giving her a parting kiss on the cheek, he turned his gaze to me. The smile on his face was far too wide for my liking, and the dimples that smile produced were both obnoxious and unnecessary. He swatted away a strand of dark brown hair from his face, and I silently prayed he'd poke himself in the eye.

No such luck.

Instead, he approached, stopping a few paces away, eyeing me curiously. I didn't know what the hell he was looking at, or why he kept staring at me like I was the most fascinating creature in the world. Hell, it may have even been deliberate on his part. Showing kindness in an effort to unearth traumatic triggers he could use to humiliate me in front of the entire town. It wouldn't be the first time.

"It sure was good getting to catch up, Firecracker. Guess I'll see you tomorrow at the studio."

"At the studio?"

Aunt Lurlene nodded as she took another sip of her ninety-proof iced tea. "Rivers Knows Best."

"Rivers knows nothing," I countered.

"KARQ," she said. "Rivers Knows Best."

"I don't know what the hell any of those words mean."

Rivers chuckled as he adjusted his belt buckle. "I have a thirty-minute slot after the morning news. Rivers Knows Best. Puff pieces, I think they call them. Last week, we had a beagle who saved his whole family from a house fire…" The corner of his lip curled into a ridiculous smirk. "Boy, you should have heard the brave little pup tell the story. He had half the crew in tears by the end."

"I hate you, Rivers Rivera. All you are. All you'll eventually become, I hate it."

"Mayor and talk show host?" Jordy asked. "What's next, professional tap dancer?"

"Tap's not really my strong point, but I've dabbled a time or two. Ballroom dancing, though? I can tear up the floor with the best of them." He winked at me. "Maybe if I'm lucky, we'll get to share a dance before you leave."

"You had your chance twenty years ago." I wondered if the memory of that night was as painful for him as it was for me. If it still laid dormant, festering for years. Did it eat away at him from the inside, too?

He turned around, making his way down the steps and onto the walkway, but then he stopped. "You're right," he said without turning around. "I hope I can make it up to you someday." He headed back toward his pickup, hoisting himself up and giving me one final glance before driving away, the only proof he'd ever been there being the dirt kicking up from his tires.

***

After getting our room situated, Jordan and I relaxed for a bit before heading downstairs for dinner. Jordan was all dolled up in business slacks and a neon-pink button-down shirt. He'd even popped on a black bowtie, hoping to impress the Fletcher family. I didn't know why he was insistent on kissing Aunt Lurlene's ass. He'd met the woman countless times when she'd visited us in London. Despite my endless pleas for him to relax, he was a bundle of nerves as we descended the staircase.

I glanced down at my watch and groaned when I saw it was one minute past the hour. Aunt Lurlene wouldn't be happy. Sure enough, when we reached the dining room, she was sitting by herself, jaw tense, with her mouth pulled into a straight line. Every nerve in me insisted I tell her to chill, to remind her that being one minute late to family dinner wasn't a sign of the end times. I'd done this familiar dance enough times to know that it was pointless, though.

I approached like a guilty dog with its tail tucked between its legs, bending down and giving her an apologetic kiss on the cheek. "Sorry. It won't happen again."

She didn't offer me absolution from my sin of tardiness, but she did give me a quick nod before taking a sip of muscadine wine. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Lurlene Fletcher was an absolute gem; a Southern belle, through and through. But that other one percent? May God have mercy on the soul that crossed her. I took the seat across from her, watching as Jordan followed my example, bending down and pecking her cheek.

"I'm really sorry, Grandmama."

It took me by surprise when she slid her hand over his, holding him close against her shoulder. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it. These things happen."

"These things happen?" I said, doing my best to hide the agitation in my voice. She ignored me, choosing to take another sip of her wine rather than address her newfound favoritism.

On the table, there was a tray of chicken-fried steaks, a serving dish packed to the heavens with mashed potatoes, and a decorative trough of candied carrots. A wicker basket filled with dinner rolls sat in the center of the table, steam still rising from the sourdough balls. We each had a glass of Fletcher Family Vineyard muscadine wine, and as Jordy took his first sip of my family's legacy, his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Dear God, that's delicious," he said.

Aunt Lurlene nodded. "It's the muscadines, sweetie." Jordy took another sip before pausing, staring at the glass, and downing the entirety of its contents in one go. When he was done, he belched. His eyes doubled in size, and he turned toward Aunt Lurlene.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry, Grandmama. How terribly uncouth."

She chuckled as she reached across the table and patted his hand. "There's no finer compliment to a winemaker, sugar. Best you believe that."

Jordy stared at the bottle in the center of the table, as if considering pouring himself another glass. His gaze lingered, and I could almost see the pros and cons lists as the points appeared in his mind. Eventually, he poured half a glass before handing the bottle back to me.

"Don't let me have any more after this. Even if I beg." Downing the glass in one chug, he set it to the side before turning back to Aunt Lurlene. "So, Phillip rants and raves about these muscadines, but he's yet to let me try one. Are they just some sort of grape?"

Aunt Lurlene gaped at him, as if he'd just whipped out his penis and pissed all over the table. All I could do was grip the arms of my chair and brace for the oncoming lecture.

"Just a grape?" she said, clutching her hand to her chest. "Just a grape? Sugar, it's only the single-greatest fruit this side of Tanner County. They're positively divine, dear. Remind me to have Preston bring you a sack of them when he gets done tomorrow evening. No one leaves Fletcher House as a muscadine virgin. They're special to this part of the country. A southern staple; tried and true. My daddy always told me it was because God knew they were little balls of perfection, and they needed somewhere perfect to grow. If you ask me, there isn't a place more perfect than Tallulah, Texas." She picked up her glass, held it at arm's length, one eyebrow raised as if she was seeking the secrets of the universe in its light-pink liquid. "They're a tricky flavor to explain, you see. We've got two kinds that grow down here. Bronze and red. The reds… oh, sugar. You haven't lived until you've had one of them. It's like a little explosion on your tongue. The skin is rough and has a little twang to it, but once you've cracked the flesh…" She closed her eyes, pulling her mouth into a small circle, like a smoker upon exhale. "Goodness gracious. It's like fruit punch and strawberries and half a gallon of sugar." Her tongue peeked out, spanning the length of her lips as if she was trying to recreate the flavor by sheer will and determination. "It's a bit like a honeysuckle; you can't really explain the flavor, you just have to experience it. You'll want to mind the seeds, though. Most people spit them out, but a gentleman doesn't spit." She reached across the table and took Jordan's hand. "Spitting is terribly tacky, don't you think?"

Jordan nodded, his eyes wide with affection. "I swallow."

I was going to fucking murder him. Right there at that table. There was no debate. No weighing of options. His life was forfeit. Before I had the chance to lift my steak knife to his throat, the screen door in the kitchen creaked as it opened, then slammed shut with a deafening thud. My anger at Jordy dissipated when Preston Fletcher skulked through the door.

"Sorry," he said when he finally reached Aunt Lurlene. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, he took his seat at the head of the table and straightened his eating utensils. He spread a napkin over his lap and then set to rearranging the salt and pepper shakers until they were perfectly placed. I knew what this was. He was avoiding me. Hoping to dawdle long enough for me to forget he even existed. Fat chance.

"Preston," I said, staring at his down-turned face.

Time had been kind to my father. After a decade and a half had divided us, it was surreal to see him in the flesh. The long, flowing blond locks he had when I was growing up had been shaved down to a buzz-cut, the blonds having been sun- bleached silver over time. He had a few more wrinkles; two across his forehead and more in the corners of his eyes. His trademark mustache was still in place, but a forest of hair grew around it now. It was a thick brown and silver beard, sculpted to perfection.

"Phillip," he said.

We filled our plates as Aunt Lurlene gave thanks. When she was done, I held the candied carrots out to Jordan, but he didn't take them. I looked up from my plate to see what had him stalling and almost vomited when I realized his eyes were locked on my father. Jordan's tongue darted out, wetting his bone-dry lips, and I was barely able to hold down the bile rising in my throat. I kicked him under the table, mouthing 'stop eyefucking my father' when he finally managed to look my way.

Preston Fletcher was not an unattractive man, so I couldn't fault Jordan for letting his gaze linger longer than it should. It's also why I didn't say a word when they dropped to the tuft of hair peeking out from under his shirt. Why I didn't call him out for batting his lashes like a common whore, rasping 'Mr. Fletcher' like he was ready to crawl under the table and swallow him whole. What I did object to, however, was the way he stroked my father's skin when they shook hands. I gave Jordan another kick under the table, but realized I must have missed when my father howled out, "Son of a bitch!" at the top of his lungs.

"Oh, Preston," Aunt Lurlene cried. "What would the neighbors say?"

Jordan snickered, but my father just jerked his hand away and shoveled a forkful of candied carrots into his mouth. I didn't know how he managed to chew and scowl at the same time, but the combination was nauseating.

"Did you stop by the freezers like I asked, baby?" she said, ignoring her food and setting her sights on the wine.

He nodded, swallowing the metric ton of carrots he'd been hoarding in his cheeks. "The haul from spring is still going strong," he said after swallowing. "Pulled out a little over double what the mayor asked for last week. He always undershoots it."

Since inheriting the vineyard, Aunt Lurlene and my father always provided the town with enough to get them through the festival. Their father—my great grandfather—used to charge them to the city. When she and Preston took over, they gave them away free of charge. " We've all got to do our part for God and country, Turnip, " she used to say to me.

"So, Mr. Fletcher," Jordan said. "Is that what you do here? Just run around and pluck grapes?"

Preston chuckled, a sound I'd only heard a handful of times, and never meant for me. "No," was all he offered Jordan in return. Aunt Lurlene and I were used to his quiet ways. In my younger years, I might have even come to his defense, just to ease a bit of the tension he'd unleashed on the room. I was twenty years past caring enough to cover for him. "You got a real funny accent."

Jordan blushed and looked down at his plate before darting his eyes in my father's direction, batting his lashes seductively. "Thank you, sir ."

My father blushed.

"He manages the vineyard, sweetheart," Aunt Lurlene said. Her voice was a little sharper when she added, "Part time."

"Aunty," he said.

"I sure do wish he'd give up that job of his in town and manage the day-to-day here. Could you imagine the sheer volume of wine we could produce with a full-time manager? Goodness, we'd probably go global. Might even be able to open the vineyard for tourists again. Wine tastings, festive family gatherings. Maybe rent out a few of our rooms like a bed-and-breakfast operation. Could you imagine? Oh, sure, he keeps on telling me 'One day, Aunty. One day,' but I'm starting to think ' one day ' isn't ever going to come."

Jordan flashed my father a smile. "I hope you come." The second the words were out, his eyes bulged, heat racing across his cheeks. "The day! I meant, I hope that the day eventually comes. Not you." Jordy cocked his head to the side, lost in thought. "Well, I suppose I hope you come as well, because it would be a shame for a man of your stature to never come again." He closed his eyes and cringed with embarrassment. "Someone shoot me, please. Put me out of my self-imposed misery."

"I will kill you," I whisper to him. "I will kill you and everyone you've ever loved if you don't control yourself."

"Well," Preston interrupted, carefully setting his fork down on his plate, his cheeks a bit redder than before. "I wouldn't need to manage anything if we'd all stuck to the plan." Then, for the first time in years, my father stared directly into my eyes. There was a quiet rage in them. An anger that had been stewing for decades. "I wouldn't have to break my back working eighteen goddamn hours a day for damn near twenty years."

"I could have stayed," I agreed. "But last I heard, the role of family martyr was already taken."

"Bernadette is going to be pissed she missed this," Jordan said.

"Who the hell is Bernadette?" I said.

"The lady with the Vicodin dependency."

I scoffed. "Her name is Brenda. Or Carole. Maybe Justin. Honestly, I don't know, and I don't particularly care to find out." I glared at Preston, aiming the tines of my fork at him. "You."

"Me?"

"Damn right, you. I offered to help you look for an assistant, but you turned me down."

"I don't need some kid wandering around making decisions on stuff he don't know a thing about. I needed someone who knows the vineyard. Gram-pap died and left us here to pick up the pieces. He gave you a third of it as well, and then you just ran off to prance around on stage like a goddamn ballerina."

"Gram-pap?" Jordy said with hearts in his eyes. "God, your voice is adorable. Say something else."

Preston rolled his eyes, ignoring Jordan.

"Now, Preston," Aunt Lurlene scolded. "We've talked about this. Phillip's a man of the world. You can't expect him to move home at the drop of a hat." She pulled the napkin from her lap and dabbed the corners of her mouth. "He's very busy being busy, you see. With all that talent inside of him—"

Preston guffawed so loudly I could almost feel it in my bones. "Talent?" He banged the side of his fist against his chest as if he was trying to dislodge an imaginary chunk of chicken-fried steak from his throat. "He just stood up there miming into a microphone. You act like we've got Emmylou Harris sitting at the dinner table or something. The kid can't sing to save his life."

I stared down at my plate, unable to respond. How could I? There were no lies in his statement, and everyone at the dinner table knew it.

"That was uncalled for," Aunt Lurlene said. "I'd like for you to apologize, Preston. If you're going to be mean just for meanness' sake, you can take your plate to your room. I'm not having Turnip's first night home ruined."

Preston made a sound similar to a dying brown bear, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at me. He mumbled something under his breath and stared out the dining room window.

"Sorry," she said. "What was that? I've never been good at deciphering the wailings of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum."

"I said, I'm sorry," he grumbled.

Suddenly, I wasn't feeling all that hungry anymore. Aunt Lurlene just sighed, and the look she gave me spoke volumes. An endless saga of sympathy designed to lift my spirits, but all it did was make me feel like even less of a man. Like I was reliant on an aging diva to fight my battles.

"I think you've got a beautiful voice, Phillip," she said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. She stared at my plate and frowned. "Would you like me to ask Marie to whip you up your usual? I didn't even think to ask what you were in the mood for, did I? She might be getting ready to head home for the night, but I don't think she'd mind staying a little later. I know we have waffle mix in the pantry, and I'm pretty sure we've got honey in the spice cabinet." She gnawed her lip, narrowing her eyes in concentration. After a beat, she said, "I'm not sure if we have any cotton candy on hand, though, baby. Preston, would you mind making a trip down to the Pick-n-Save and grabbing a bag of the ready-made? There's still an hour or so before it closes."

"What is it with you and cotton candy waffles?" Jordan said.

"It was our thing. Every morning at Minnie's before school." I pushed my plate further away and shook my head at Aunt Lurlene.

"His favorite," she agreed.

"It wasn't just y'all's thing," Preston muttered. He was right. It hadn't just been Aunt Lurlene and me sharing waffles at Minnie's Diner. With his quiet disposition, it might as well have been, but he'd always gotten up early to drive us into town as a family.

"You must be exhausted after your trip," Aunt Lurlene said. "Why don't you go on up to bed and get some rest? I can wake you up in the morning, if you'd like. Have a pot of coffee ready for you when you get up."

"Thanks," I said. "We've got the talk show in the morning. Would you mind getting us up at six?"

"I'm always up by three-thirty. This new medication they've got me on for my arthritis has me shooting out of bed like a freight train. You boys go on upstairs. I'll see you both in the morning."

In my bedroom, Jordan headed toward an old bean bag that hadn't been used in decades. A giant blue blob that always reminded me of an overripe blueberry. The second I saw him plop down onto it, my heart raced in my chest. There was something within eyeshot that Jordan would never let me live down if he caught sight of it.

Etched into my baseboard were four initials, divided by an unbroken heart. A heart that, at one time, had hoped it might one day belong to a boy with matching names. The owner of two dimples I'd spent hours memorizing when I should have been focusing on my schoolwork. My county fair king. There was an old sweater hanging on my bedpost, and I casually tossed it beside Jordan, covering up the regrets of my youth. Despite what the younger version of me may have thought at the time, P.F. did not, in fact, heart R.R.

I fumbled with my jeans, carelessly hopping around the room as I tried to unwedge my ankle from the fabric. Once they were off, I tossed my shirt into the wicker basket by my closet door.

"Phillip?"

"What's up?" I grabbed a pair of purple sleep shorts from my suitcase and slid into them. There was a tube of overnight cream in my bag. It didn't do much to erase my crinkles (not wrinkles) , but it stopped them from spreading. The salve was cool to the touch, and as I dabbed it under my eye, the familiar scent of sandalwood and rose filled the air in front of me.

"Did you reinstall that hookup app?"

"I have no desire to sleep with anyone in this town."

"Well, it says there's someone online. They're less than ten feet away. The servers must be malfunctioning. The picture is just a headless torso." He stared at his phone, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a nibble. "And what a headless torso it is. Good God, Almighty."

"That's probably just Preston. Or Aunt Lurlene catfishing men on my behalf again." I'd need to have another come-to-Jesus with her, if that was the case. I'd specifically instructed her against doing so at least twenty times.

"Why would your father be on a gay hookup app?"

I stared at him through the mirror, furrowing my brow. "He's gay. We've discussed this."

Jordan bolted upright in the beanbag. "We most certainly have not."

"He doesn't wear his heart on a rainbow-colored sleeve like us, but yeah."

"But he has a son. He must've slept with a woman before."

"Actually, you'll find that I was a test tube baby. His best friend in college. She and her husband had fertility issues. My father was just supposed to be Uncle Preston."

"I thought you said he raised you with Grandmama Lurlene?"

Using my big toe, I pried my sock off and kicked it into the air, toward the basket. Hole in one. "I lived with John and Janna at first. I was with them for a year before they were killed by a drunk driver."

"Jesus. I'm sorry, Phillip."

I shrugged. "I don't remember them. Aunt Lurlene was the only real parental figure I had."

"What about your dad?"

"I didn't meet him until I was six. After college he moved out to Dallas, trying to be a country singer."

"He sings?" Jordan's eyes widened, and I could already see a sheen of awe glossing over them.

"Don't. Whatever you're thinking, just don't."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Lies. You've got that same look in your eyes you had when you tried to sign me up for Celebrity Sudoku."

"I still don't know why you turned them down. It was a great opportunity."

"It was a television program where z-list celebrities sat silently in a room and played sudoku. It didn't even last an entire episode. They canceled it during the first commercial break."

"It was still more camera time than you've had this last decade. You can't blame me for trying to keep your name relevant. And stop changing the subject. He sings?"

"Jesus on the cross." I slipped under the covers and pulled them up past my head. "Don't ask him to sing. I'm not using this show to propel my father to stardom at my expense. Not happening."

"I bet you'd let Rivers serenade you."

"Going to sleep now." With my face pressed into the pillow, I lifted my arm in the air and duck-billed my thumb against my index finger. "Shut that mouth." I thought, stupidly, that this would be the end of it. Instead, my mattress dipped, and he slid behind me, pulling me against him. "I'm not fucking you in my childhood bed, Jordan."

He gagged behind me, and it took everything I had not to turn around and slap him. "Obviously, I'm not trying to get a hold of your little firecracker, Phillip."

"There's nothing little about my firecracker."

His hand cupped my bulge and gave it a squeeze. "I've seen it before, remember? Many times."

"It's perfectly average, you sadist," I said. His hand crept up, until it was resting against my stomach. We were quiet for a while, enjoying the sound of the autumn cicadas chirping out a gentle song. It was nice, their white noise. As I began drifting off, he pulled me tighter against him, his grip firm, but not uncomfortable. Despite how our banter might have come across to others, he'd been there with me through the thick of it. When everyone else turned their back on me, Jordan remained, tried and true. Though we shared no romantic spark, we'd done this familiar dance frequently. Just two lonely souls clinging to each other for comfort.

"I'm proud of you, Phillip," he said, kissing my shoulder. "For taking this chance, I mean. I know it can't be easy to come back here."

"It hasn't been that bad, I guess."

"Still," he said. "Even if the series doesn't work out, I think you're really brave for taking the risk. And if it is a failure, you know I'm not going anywhere, right?"

I smiled. "Yeah, Jordy. I know." I placed my hand on top of his, weaving our fingers together. "Love you."

"Love you, too."