Page 64 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Oh, you’re right.” She flips the television on, and the sounds of the parade commentary fills our ears. It’ll be a while yet before the floats roll.

I keep my seat, grab my phone, and change Strider to HoneyBun in my phone. It’ll come out soon enough. But in the meantime, there’s no need to tempt fate.

Though, tempt it I shall.

Where’s Kevin?

27

seeking a high score

Mirren

The boys come trickling in. One-by-one they give me hugs, or noogies, or both. Davie is the last to arrive as usual. He slides in, still in his pajamas, hair askew, having not shaved.

He grabs coffee and plops next to me, shaking his head when I open my mouth to ask him what’s up. He points to his coffee and then places a finger to his lips.

“Hungover?” I mouth.

His nod is enough. His eyes closing in pain act as the exclamation point.

I suck in a huge lungful of air because fucking with Rookie makes me so freaking happy, but he tenses, and I relent. He and I are the closest in age and have a special bond. Not like Charlie who sees me as his to protect and who has set it up where I run to him for help. Not like Jamie who has the military background and shares a similar past with me—one that no one else, aside from Dad, can fathom.

But the two youngest. The two overlooked. The two who relied on each other.

I pat his knee and leave him to refill my cup and grab a glass of orange juice. Johnny and Jamie are at the counter, watching Charlie plop dollops of biscuit dough into a hot dish full of melted butter. Mikey, behind him, is scrambling eggs.

Charlie cringes as Mikey elbows him every time he passes. It’s intentional. They’re the two broadest, the boldest, and the brawlers. The next time it happens Charlie spins. “I dare you to do that again or I’ll force that bowl of eggs down your throat.”

Mikey grins wide, puts the bowl to his lips, and downs enough that my gag reflex bobs and my stomach flips. Egg juice lingers in his week-old beard. He smacks his lips and grins wildly. “Ah, protein. Does the body good.”

“That’s gross, Zipper. Toss that whole bowl out and start again,” Mom goes on. As if that needs to be said.

“Can’t,” he replies. “I used all of ’em but three.”

“Cooking will technically kill all the germs,” I start, and all eyes turn to me.

I lift both hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” I know better than to stay in this kind of powder keg and return to my chair, offering the juice to Rookie. “It’ll help. Drink up.”

He downs it and dives back into his coffee.

My butt vibrates with a text.

HoneyBun

Who’s Kevin?

This is so not the place or time for this convo, but it’s as solo as I’ll get for the day. Rookie is quiet and not making any effort at conversation, and the rest are in a heated conversation about breakfast and who’s refusing to eat eggs.

Zipper simply grins and winks when I catch his eyes. He’s starting shit—like always. He’s such an instigator. He’s also the first to apologize and make shit right. Big personality, bigger heart.

I can’t help but offer a huge grin in return to my teddy bear of a brother.

Turning my attention to my phone, I formulate a coded message.

Kevin is the purple substitute that nearly drowned in an ice bath.

HoneyBun