Page 28 of Sunday's Best

He drops into the empty chair beside mine, stretching his long, denim-clad legs out in front of him. It never ceases to amaze me how he can wear jeans in the blazing heat and not even have a sheen on his forehead, but I’m sweating buckets in shorts and a thin cami.

“I don’t think he’d be too impressed by your plastic fork as a cooking tool,” Holden says.

“I’m not sure a person with that much bleach in their hair is worried about micro-plastics in their food.” I sip my wine cooler, the cold sweetness a small mercy in the sweltering heat.

“I’m using the fork because Holden melted our only flipper to a frying pan.” Logan scooches the burger patties around on the hot grill, creating a sizzling sound that makes my stomach growl. “So you get what you get and you don’t get upset.”

Holden throws his hands up in defense. “Sue me for assuming it could sit next to my frying eggs while I buttered the toast.”

“To be fair”—I tip my drink toward him—“being from hell and all, your understanding of heat is probably skewed.”

Holden’s amused gaze meets mine. “A cooking utensil has one job. If it can’t handle that, I don’t want it in the kitchen anyways.”

Logan laughs as he plates our hamburgers. The thin white paper almost immediately threatens to buckle under the weight—he insisted on making homemade patties, which is great, but they look dense.

“Dude, the smoke in the trailer was so bad we had to keep the windows open all day,” Logan says, still chuckling under his breath at the memory, as he hands Holden and me our dinner. “Mind you, it was April in Northern Alberta. It was so fucking cold, we had to sleep in multiple layers of clothes that night.”

“So dramatic,” Holden says with an eye roll before taking the first bite of his burger. Wiping a dab of stray ketchup from the corner of his mouth, he grunts his approval. “Not bad. Six out of ten.”

I press down on the top bun, trying to flatten the behemoth of a burger enough that I’m not forced to unhinge my jaw like a snake to eat it. Sauces ooze out the side, pooling on a small chunk of lettuce that already fell out.

“Oh my God,” I say around a mouthful. Could be that my palate has changed after weeks of almost exclusively consuming boxed foods and poutine, but this burger is phenomenal. It plunks back down on my plate and, swallowing, I hold up ten fingers. “Holden doesn’t know shit about fuck. This is so good.”

“Thanks, baby.” Logan rubs his hand across the top of my thigh. The sensation is too similar to the way my microfiber cleaning rags snag and pull at the dry skin on my hands. It makes me want to throw up.

In my periphery, Holden tips his head back and, in two long chugs, finishes his beer. He stays in that position, face to the sun with his eyes shut. I’m sure it would be incredibly relaxing, if every muscle in his body wasn’t so tense.

“I’ve seen Sunday’s eyes light up looking at a gas station hot dog. Her taste is questionable, at best.” Holden makes a valiant effort to keep up the repartee, but I don’t miss the sharp edge in his tone.

I want to shake off Logan’s touch and curl up in his brother’s lap, but I can’t. I’m a bitch for that. Maybe Logan doesn’t deserve me, because while he’s sitting here with his hand on my leg, he’s undoubtedly counting down to his next sexual conquest. But I’m no better—waiting on tenterhooks for an opportunity to be alone with Holden again.

Mouth full of burger, Logan mumbles, “She has great taste in hot dogs.” He’s clearly referring to his dick.

There’s a flinch in Holden’s stoic expression. My guts twist with guilt, stealing my ravenous appetite.

Holden pushes out of his chair. “I need another drink.”

“Grab me a beer,” Logan says.

I barely swallow one bite of food before I’m taking another, letting the silence between us stretch wider and wider. I’m no longer hungry, but eating myself sick is worth it to spare myself an awkward conversation. There’s an entire canyon of unspoken truths between Logan and me, and at one time, all I wanted was to bridge that gap. Now I’m comfortably numb.

Logan clears his throat. “So, tonight do you want to… you know?”

Another bite of burger to shut myself up. I chew slowly, thoughtfully, and raise a brow at him.

“It’s been a while, and I know having my brother around kind of kills the mood.” The opposite, actually. “But he goes to bed early… maybe we can sneak out here and fool around in the back seat of the truck?”

The hamburger bun is too dry—or maybe it’s that the seductive look on his face made all the moisture leave my body—and I struggle to wash it down with my wine cooler.

“Logan, I don’t know…”

He squeezes my thigh. A subtle come on. I open my mouth to agree, because it’s easier than the alternative.

Do you always let him decide things for you? Holden’s voice parrots in my mind.

Wedging the cold glass bottle between my legs, I smooth the tips of my fingers over my lips in thought. I’m not sure when my voice became mute. Perhaps it always was. But the thought of lying underneath Logan and wishing it was Holden has bile rising in my throat. I can’t sit idly by while Logan decides this for me.

I shrug innocently. “I’m… um, I’m not really feeling it.”