Page 55

I never finish the sentence.
From behind us, on the patio, there’s a whistle, hollering, and rowdy catcalls. I turn and look toward the noise—to see it’s being directed at Sofia. From four assholes I’ve never seen before, whose names I don’t know, but wouldn’t mind reading on a couple of headstones.
Then one of them reaches out and grabs her ass.
When they say so mad I saw red, I never knew that you actually see red—but that’s just what happens. My vision tunnels, bordered with hot crimson. I don’t remember walking away from Jenny, I don’t recall crossing the yard. The next thing I’m aware of is my hand around a scumbag’s throat—slamming his head up against the side of my brother’s double-wide.
“Touch her again, I’ll rip your fuckin’ arm off and shove it up your ass.”
His hands claw, trying to pry my fingers off—I just tighten my grip.
Then Carter’s next to me. “Easy, Stanton, we’re pacifists here. You need to settle down, brother.”
When the dickhead’s face turns an acceptable shade of purple, I let him go. He holds his neck, heaving and gasping. And I snarl at my brother, “Don’t tell me to settle down. Tell your friend to watch where he puts his fuckin’ hands.”
With one hand on his chest, I pin the grabby prick to the wall of the trailer one last time, for good measure.
Then I wrap my arm around Sofia and lead her away. Her eyes glow up at me softly. “You know I could’ve handled that.”
“I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”
And I don’t leave her side the rest of the night.
• • •
At 1 a.m. the party is still going strong. Sofia’s silly, happy drunk—sitting next to me on a lawn chair, teaching Sadie naughty words in Portuguese. After six or seven Jack and Cokes, I’m pretty shit-faced myself. Carter runs out from the side of the trailer, calling me over, telling me to hurry. I hold my hand out to Sofia and we follow him around to the front. My brother puts his finger to his lips and jerks his head toward my truck.
My truck that has windows as steamed as that car in Titanic.
Carter takes one side and I take the other. As I bang on the windows shouting, “Police! Open up!”, he wrenches open the door.
Then he sings, “I see London, I see France, I see Marshall with no underpants!”
We laugh like hyenas as my little brother hops out in unbuttoned jeans and his hat, cursing the day we were born. A pink-faced blonde follows close behind, and much to Marshall’s disappointment, disappears into a group of her friends.
“Y’all suck!” Marshall scowls.
A bit later, we’re sitting around the bonfire—me, Carter, Marshall, Jenny, and JD. Carter takes a drag on a joint, then offers it to me. I shake my head. Sofia declines too. Jenny, however, readily accepts and hits it like a pro.
“I thought you said you weren’t as fun as you used to be?” I tease.
She blows out a cloud of smoke. “At twenty-eight, I smoke for completely different reasons than I did at sixteen.”
JD also takes a few hits.
“Alright, listen up, children—I got somethin’ to say,” Carter announces, and all eyes turn to him. “When Jenny and JD get married on Saturday, we’ll all be one family.”
Nope, not really.
I open my mouth, but he goes on. “Like the buzzin’ bees of a hive, we all must live in harmony for the colony to flourish. And I am sensin’ tension between Stanton and JD.”
JD’s shiny eyes squint. “There’s no tension. Stanton and I get along great.”
Sure. And as far as I’m concerned, we’d get along even better if he moved to China, tried climbing Mount Everest . . . died.
Jenny raises her hand like we’re back in school. “I agree, Carter. There’s tension.” She pats JD’s leg. “You’re just too sweet to see it, baby.”
“We have to purge the negativity,” Carter explains. “I have a foolproof plan to reestablish the natural order and reinforce a functioning hierarchy we can all be happy with.”
JD scratches his head. “That’s a lot of words, man. You wanna run that by me again?”
Natural order.
Hierarchy.
It might just be the whiskey . . . but that sounds like a damn good idea.
• • •
It was definitely the whiskey.
“This is a terrible fuckin’ idea!”
Life’s funny. One day you’re wearing a suit that costs more than most people bring home in a month, impressing the boss with your skill and expertise. And a week later, you’re in the middle of a cattle pasture at two o’clock in the morning, too drunk to see straight, getting ready to race a tractor.
Yes, a tractor.
That was Carter’s grand idea. Healthy competition, may the best man win, and all that crap. Now my father’s tractors are spitting diesel smoke, rumbling like thunder—me in one, JD in the other. Carter’s got the song “Holding Out for a Hero” blasting from my truck speakers and Jenny’s standing in front of us. “Ready, set, go!”
She throws JD’s hat in the air and we take off. It’s a quarter of a mile to the tree, then we have to circle around and back. I push the pedal to the floor, shifting into high gear.
I hear Jenny scream, “Kick his ass, JD!”
And Carter, “That’s the way, boys! Feel the balance comin’ back—it’s all about the balance!”
Sofia cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Go Stanton! Drive that fucking tractor!”