Page 8 of Everything You Hate
“Uh huh.” He eyes me for a second, then gives that easy grin of his that makes women stupid and men comfortable.“Heard you went swimming this morning. In your clothes. For a stranger.”
The island rumor mill works fast.
“She dropped her suitcase and nearly fell in with it.”
“Sure, sure. And you, being the hero you are, couldn’t let that happen.” His grin widens. “Uncle Dean to the rescue.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Uncle?” He looks genuinely confused for a second, then laughs. “But you are my uncle. You’re my dad’s brother.”
“I’m not that much older than you.”
“Still my uncle.” He shrugs. “Age doesn’t change that.”
It doesn’t, but the reminder of my place in this family—the uncle raised more like a brother, who never quite fit either role—sends a familiar ache through my chest. Henry was twenty-one when I was born, already married to Lana, already building his own life. I became an uncle at two years old when Bodhi was born.
“Where’s Bodhi?” I ask, steering us back to the point.
“Office. Same as always.” Colter picks up the feed bucket again. “Want me to walk you over? Make sure Noodle doesn’t ambush you on the way?”
“I can handle a goose.”
“Yeah? I seem to remember him chasing you into the pond.”
“That was one time.”
“And it was hilarious.” He starts walking toward the main house, and I fall into step beside him. Radar falls into step beside us. The farm smells like hay and animals and the green damp of spring growth. Noodle has gone back to patrolling around his pond. Bacon the pig roots near the vegetable garden, his stubby tail wagging. Colter’s done good work here. Better than anyone expected when Henry handed him the reins after the old foreman retired—he’s always been the troublemaker of thefamily, the class clown, the one who couldn’t sit still. But he’s found his footing here, and the farm shows it.
We pass the chicken coop, and a dozen hens scatter and cluck as Radar trots by. Colter whistles something cheerful under his breath, the kind of tune that makes you want to smile even when you’re determined not to. I keep my face neutral.
“Dad says you’ve been sleeping on the boat again,” Colter says, casual as anything.
“Your dad needs to mind his business.”
“Dad’s business is you.” Colter shrugs. “You’re his baby brother. He worries.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Uh huh.” He doesn’t push it, which is one of the things I appreciate about Colter. For all his nosiness, he knows when to back off.
I hear his kid before I see her—that bright, piping voice that carries across fields like a bell.
“Great-Uncle Dean!” Hazel shrieks, and she comes tearing around the corner of the barn at full speed, pigtails flying, a smear of something green across her cheek. She launches herself at me, and I catch her on instinct, her small body colliding with mine like a warm, paint-stained missile.
“Hey, kid.” I hoist her up onto my hip. She smells like grass and sheep and the grape lollipops Colter bribes her with. “What’s on your face?”
“Art,” she says, like it’s obvious.
“Right.” I look at my brother, who follows at a more leisurely pace. “Art.”
Henry holds up his hands, which are also paint-stained. “I plead the fifth.”
Hazel pats my cheek with a sticky hand to get my attention. “Great-Uncle Dean, did you know geese don’t have teeth?”
