In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 39

The ice pack on my jaw is cold, but not cold enough to numb the shame burning underneath.

I got into a fistfight with my younger brother. Outside a restaurant. Madison’s restaurant. The farm’s restaurant.

I blow out a puff of smoke, knowing I’ll never forget how she looked when she told us to leave—tears building, chin wobbling, heartbreak written across her face.

It was selfish, giving in to my anger like that. Noble intentions or not.

And the longer I sit here on the porch, reliving every second of it, the louder Tommy’s words echo and I begin to see the truth in many of them.

I’m the older brother, and I haven’t always acted like it.

The porch door squeaks behind me.

Tommy walks by, crusted blood still clinging under his nose, and disappears into the house. A second later he’s back—with a bag of frozen peas mashed against his eye.

He drops into the chair across from me, my lit cigarette burning in the makeshift ashtray between us. A thin vine of smoke weaves into the air as we study each other. His eyes drift to my jaw. Mine to the split at the corner of his lip.

My mouth twitches with an unexpected smile.

His nostrils flare with a stifled grin, followed by a scoff. Then a chuckle from both of us. Then a full, rolling laugh.

God, it hurts—but I can’t stop. It’s the kind of laugh that cramps your abs and waters your eyes.

Tommy clutches his stomach. We’ve completely lost it.

Two grown-ass brothers fought in a parking lot today.

Both destroyed.

Both ridiculously immature.

Both . . . maybe finally starting to understand.

Slowly, like taking a pot of boiling water off the stove, our laughter dies down.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. No sarcasm. No humor.

“Me too.” I adjust the ice pack on my jaw. “I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

He waves it off. “I deserved it.”

Silence again. And then—

“Honestly? It felt kind of good. I think I’ve been waiting too long for someone to care enough to call me out.”

“You don’t think we care?” I ask.

Tommy stares at the cigarette but doesn’t mention it, or the fact that I’m smoking on the porch we grew up on. “I’ve wanted you to want me around for years, man. Since we were kids. But you had Noah, so you never needed me. I’d come home to visit, hoping it’d be different . . . that we’d finally click or something. But it never happened. I always felt unnecessary. That’s when I’d leave.”

The words settle like sharp rocks in my stomach.

“Tommy . . . shit. I’m sorry. I definitely made the wedge worse. I’ve resented you and your freedom to leave whenever you wanted. Hated you for it at times. But I didn’t know how to say that. Or that I really could’ve used your help after Dad’s heart attack.”

I pause. “I let that resentment grow.”

And just like with Madison, I didn’t know how to rewrite the relationship after years of letting it stagnate.

We sit silent for a while, both processing. Lost in thought.

Then Tommy lets out a scoff. “How messed up is it that we’re so disconnected the only way I knew how to help you was by manipulating you?”

I move the cigarette to my lips, take a drag, and blow it out the side of my mouth. “How messed up is it that I’ve been so jealous of you I’ve avoided you for years?”

He laughs, and I extend the cigarette to him.

He pinches it, takes a breath in—and immediately coughs so hard he doubles over.

Guess he didn’t inherit Dad’s and my propensity for smoking.

When he finally catches his breath, I take the cigarette back, draw in once more, then stub it out on the plate between us.

“You were right, back there,” I say quietly. “I’ve been too scared to take control of my own happiness. Scared to lose people. Scared to fail. Scared to hurt. It’s been easier to just . . . avoid anything that might actually make me happy.”

Tommy sets down his ice pack and stares at the cigarette. “We need to fix our shit, man.”

“Yeah.” I nod. Turns out fixing the things physically wrong with my body was the easy part. Now it’s time to deal with the inside stuff. The hard stuff. Sharing my feelings and all that.

He smiles and extends his hand across the table. “Friends?”

“Friends.” I shake his hand, and I’m tempted to ask him to make a blood pact with me.

“By the way, I’m glad you’re taking the contract. As the financial investor of the restaurant, it makes me feel a lot better.”

I look sharply at him. He just smirks and shrugs a shoulder. “You were too much of a financial risk. No one else wanted to invest.”

“Tommy, that was a lot of money.”

“It’s fine. I’m rich. But I wanted you to know, not only because I’m a selfish prick who needs constant recognition but because I didn’t want you to doubt that I do care about you . . . and this farm.”

I stare at him, genuinely feeling excited about the prospect of getting to know him better. “Thank you. Truly.”

The porch screen door slams open, ricocheting against the wall.

I whirl in my chair to find Mom and Dad standing in the doorway like two grim reapers ready to collect their idiot sons.

Mom’s gaze locks onto the cigarette. Her fury ignites.

Tommy points at me across the table. “It’s his.”

Real nice. Right out of the gate.

She stalks forward, slow and menacing. My dad promptly backs away, heading toward the barn. Choosing inner peace.

Ruth Huxley looms over us, a judge ready to sentence.

“I hope you’re comfortable,” she says. “Because you’re about to sit here and listen to me explain the meaning of family until your ears bleed.”