Page 9 of Sunday's Best

Holden scoffs without looking up from the menu clutched in his hands. “It’s too early for milkshakes.”

“Didn’t realize I was traveling with our dad this summer.”

While I’ve never met their dad, I’ve been told he’s a “miserable piece of shit”—Logan’s words—and though that description certainly fits Holden, it’s also a cheap shot.

“I’d say I didn’t realize I was traveling with a frat boy this summer, but that’s a lie—I did.” Holden’s jaw tics, accusation in his gaze.

“Well, if there’s one upside to adulthood, it’s being allowed milkshakes at any hour,” I interject, turning to give Logan my best attempt at an earnest smile. His hand slides across my lap to clasp mine, intertwining our fingers so our knuckles press sharply against each other.

“Did I hear milkshakes?” A young, blond waitress appears with a notepad in hand. Thank God for her; we were mere seconds from a brawl. I can’t even find it in me to be annoyed with the flicker of Logan’s eyes from her mouth to her chest to her hips.

“Yeah, two chocolate shakes for us,” Logan replies with that trademarked, dimpled grin, tipping his head toward me.

“Can I grab you one, too?” She smiles at Holden.

“It’s ten a.m.,” he says brusquely.

Her smile falters, like she’s unsure whether that’s a yes or no.

“Don’t mind him,” I say. “Really tragic story, actually. He sold his ability to have fun to a sea witch so he could be human… He’s still learning how to act civilized, though.”

“Fine. I’ll have the vanilla.” Holden’s elbow thunks on top of the table, and his fingers press his left temple.

Then, before the waitress can walk away, Logan adds, “And I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger with fries.”

We’re ordering food right now?

Logan knows I hate feeling rushed to choose a meal. While he’s a man with simple, predictable tastes, I like to have the chance to peruse the menu. But he probably feels bad about us leaving late thanks to him sleeping in, and about requesting we stop, so rushing me along is his way of appeasing Holden.

I pick up the menu in front of me for the first time since sitting down, and skim for the safest option. I vaguely register Holden placing an order, then the impatient squeeze of Logan’s hand.

He leans in, stabbing a finger at the menu. “Get the chicken sandwich. You’ll like it.”

“Um, yeah, okay…” I smile up at the waitress. “Yeah, I’ll get the chicken sandwich with a side salad.”

Logan shakes his head. “The fries are really good here.”

“I’m sure they are, but I⁠—”

“She’ll get the fries,” he cuts me off, hastily collecting the menus and handing them to the waitress.

I blow out a half-laugh. “Apparently the fries are a must.”

Holden’s eyes flit between me and Logan, stopping on me for a beat too long. Embarrassment warms my cheeks. Looking away, I squint through the bright morning sun to fake admiration for the scenic semi-truck filled parking lot, complete with a port-a-potty and a murder of crows picking apart a discarded sub sandwich.

“Great, I’ll have that to you shortly,” the waitress replies.

Logan launches into rodeo talk, and I half-listen, nodding and playing along where I should. I’ve heard him relive his glory moments so many times, I could retell them in a way that would convince people I was the one in the saddle. But today, a tiny question snarls in my brain, poisoning his stories the way water travels up paper. The afterparty shenanigans are noticeably absent from every story he tells, and because I know he’s not the type to have a quiet beer and an early bedtime, I’m curious.

Logan’s knee bumps mine. “You’re quiet this morning.”

“Just listening.”

Under normal circumstances, I’m so good at being a girlfriend, it’s a little disconcerting. But it’s harder to do when I’m this tired and fed up. Even the threat of Holden having yet another reason to criticize me carries less oomph than usual. Not that I think he gives enough of a shit about me to keep a running list on all my flaws, but if he did, shitty girlfriend would end up there.

“Do you always celebrate your wins like you did last night?” I finally ask.

The girl. The hand on her hip. The laugh. Whatever came next.