Page 113 of Hope After Loss

“Join the club, man. I’m still trying to figure it out myself, so if you wanna take a swing at me, go ahead. I’ll give you one unrestricted throw, but I’d appreciate it if you aimed for the jaw and not the nose. I’m pretty freaking handsome, but I’m not sure I can pull off a crooked nose.”

He throws out his hand in Langford’s direction. “Sure you can. Look at Langford. His nose is still crooked from when he was thrown off the four-wheeler into the side of the barn,” he says.

“Exactly. I don’t want to look like Langford. Damn,” I say as I make a gagging sound.

He chuckles.

“Hey, I’m beautiful, fuckers,” Langford bellows just as Tucker comes walking down the hallway with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Dude, language. Your kid is here,” I say.

Langford just grunts.

“We good?” I ask Corbin.

“Are you going to hurt her?” he asks.

“I’ll try not to.”

“Try hard,” he insists.

“Harder than I’ve ever tried to do anything in my life.”

He gives me a chin lift. “I still don’t like it.”

“Eh, I still don’t like you and Maxi. She’s way too hot for you, but I’ve learned to live with it.”

“Whatever,” he says as he shoulder-checks me while walking to the cabinet to get a plate.

“What happened?” Tucker asks as he takes in the broken dish and food scattered across the floor.

“Uncle Weston tripped over his shoelaces,” Langford lies.

Corbin fills the plate with food and then passes it to me. I take it, and he loads another for himself.

“So, you like Anna, huh?” Tucker says as he sits beside me.

“You heard that, did you?”

“The whole valley heard it,” he says.

“Yep. I done went and fell for a girl.”

“Man, everyone’s dropping like flies around here.”

“You’d better not make fun. You’ll be next,” I tell him.

“No way. Girls are nothing but headaches. Britt couldn’t even go for burgers with us after practice last week because Jennifer wanted him to go to her cousin’s birthday party with her.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad. Birthday parties have cake,” I say.

“It was a princess-themed party, and she made him dress up like a prince,” he says.

I scrunch up my nose in disgust. “He did that?”

“Yep. He’s whipped. Poor guy. Don’t get whipped, Uncle Weston,” he advises.

“Never, buddy.”