Page 18 of Micah

I sigh and tie my apron around my waist.

The kitchen was my idea.

Patrick fought me every step of the way.

“Nobody comes to a bar for food,” he'd insisted.

“They do if the food's good.”

“They'll eat peanuts.”

“They'll eat wings.”

Turns out I was right.

Which I usually am when it comes to business.

Having a few enthusiastic customers with a ton of social media followers making reels that went viral about this place didn’t hurt either.

Now people drive from three counties over just for our mango habanero wings and smoked brisket sandwiches.

On Friday nights, we're standing room only.

On Saturday afternoons, we sell out of pulled pork before dinner.

The money's coming in better than either of us expected.

Enough that I should probably feel good about myself.

Instead, I mostly feel tired.

Because every extra dollar just seems to give Patrick another reason to spend it.

Or hand out free drinks to his buddies.

Or buy another television he doesn't need.

He's not good at this.

He's good at looking like he's good at this.

There's a difference.

Still, he's my brother.

And I owe him.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

After Dad got sick, everything changed.

The medical bills came first.

Then the second mortgage.

Then the collection notices.

I was halfway through my business degree when Patrick called and told me the bank was coming after the house.