Maddox: There will always be room for you in my life. You have a permanent place, Ash.
My eyes grow cloudy as I read the words a second, then a third time. I didn’t realize it until now, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard, or read, a man communicate that to me. That I matter that much. And that I always will.
Maddox Carmichael, you’re a charming bastard.
Me:
Maddox:
I clutch my phone to my chest and head to my room to make a packing list for the trip.
EIGHT
Maddox
“I can’t believe you wanted chicken noodle soup when it’s this hot outside,” Mom says, handing me a bowl. “Do you want any, Banks?”
My brother shakes his head. “Nope. This sweet tea is all I need. That and your love, Mama.”
She rolls her eyes at him.
The kitchen at my parents’ house is bright and airy, thanks to the wall we took down a few weeks back. It was a messy job—and Foxx and Moss almost came to blows over it—but we got it done, and it doesn’t look half bad.
I stir the soup, watching the carrots and celery swim around in the broth.
“What did you two do today?” Mom asks. “When I talked to you, it sounded like you were at a party.” She turns on the water at the sink but watches us over the island.
I grin. “We were. It was a total rager.”
“You should’ve seen it, Mom,” Banks says, twisting in his chair so he can watch her reaction. “Wet T-shirt contests and these big t—”
“Banks,” she warns. “Don’t.”
We laugh. She’s not sure whether to believe us or not, which is hysterical.
“Who goes to parties at four in the afternoon on a Saturday?” I ask.
Banks looks at me over his shoulder. “We have before.”
“That’s true.”
Mom shakes her head and sighs. “You two are going to be the death of me. Especially you, Banks.”
“Why especially me? Why is it always especially me?”
“Because you, you little shit, broke my cookie jar.”
She levels her gaze with my brother.
I dip my chin toward my soup and fill my mouth with the still-too-hot liquid. Fuck. My mouth opens and I blow out steam toward the ceiling.
“Your cookie jar is broken?” Banks asks as if he has no clue. “Which one?”
“The shoe.”
“The one Dad bought you for … your graduation, I think?” he asks.
“For Foxx’s birth, but yes, that one.” She places a hand on her hip. “Why didn’t you tell me that you broke it?”
“Um …” He looks at me over his shoulder. “Because I didn’t do it?”
The last sentence sounds more like a question than an answer. If Mom had any hesitation that Banks broke the jar, she doesn’t anymore.
I glance at her to start trying to deflect her attention from the subject, but she gives me the look—the one that I know better than to screw with.
“Okay, in Banks’s defense,” I say, ignoring his dropped jaw, “that thing has been broken for months now, and you just noticed.”
She rolls her tongue around her mouth. “So it was Banks.”
“See? She didn’t know for sure,” he says to me. “You snitch.”
“Banks, shut it. Everyone knew for sure that it was you, just like she already knows I’m the one who glued it together. It was only a matter of time.”
Banks lifts his chin and turns back to Mom. “If you’re just noticing, I guess that means you don’t bake enough. You might want to reevaluate your mothering skills.”
“You better watch your mouth, little boy,” Mom tells him.
I snort and sip more soup.
“So where were you heathens?” Mom asks. “Are you avoiding the question?”
“I taught the bitty kids this morning,” I say.
“Didn’t you opt out of coaching this quarter?” Mom asks. “I thought you were stepping back from wrestling for a little while.”
I sigh. “Me too. Chris took one of the junior wrestlers to a competition in North Dakota and asked me to fill in today.”
Mom comes around the island and pulls out a chair at the table between Banks and me. “When is the last time you took a day off?”
I shrug and take another mouthful.
Staying busy is a Carmichael family trait. We’re always into something, doing something, plotting something else. But, according to my mother, I’m going to work myself to death.
“Why don’t you ever ask me that?” Banks jokes. “Why is it always Banks broke this and never Banks needs some time off?”
“Because you’re here so much that I know all the days you take off, the time you go to work, when you get home …” She grabs his chin in her hand. “I love you, son, but you need to find a wife.”
I chuckle. “You think someone is gonna take him? Good luck with that.”
“And you, Maddox Anthony, need to take a break,” she says, her voice no-nonsense. “I appreciate your work ethic—especially considering that I didn’t think you had one through college.”