GLORY STANDS OUTSIDE THE YELLOW door, plate of chocolate chip cookies in her hands.
“Knock,” Becca says.
Glory doesn’t move. Her face heats up and the plate slides in her suddenly wet palms. How could Mom have talked her into doing this? She isn’t ready for this. She will never be ready. She is not Delwood’s Welcome Wagon!
“Fine,” Becca says. She leans on her crutch, knocks on the door.
“Becca!”
The door opens wide, reveals Matt. Shirtless. “Uh,” he says. “Uh, one minute.”
Glory stares after his retreating back.
“Hey.” Matt returns rolling a blue Diesel shirt down his stomach, Ben in tow.
“Hey!” Ben says, eyes the cookies. “Those for us?”
“Stand down, cookie monster!” Matt shoves the boy.
Ben’s answering grin is so cheeky, Matt responds in kind.
Glory is mesmerized.
“Mom says the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Becca says.
“Well, Becca.” A slow grin spreads across Matt’s face. “You’re a little young for me. And, sweetheart, let me tell you, Ben’s not really a man.”
“What?” Becca screeches.
Glory laughs, ends with a full snort. Oh, mortification!
Matt’s grin swallows his face. “Like I said yesterday, Ben does that all the time.”
“I do not!” Ben delivers a two-handed shove, sends his big brother stumbling forward.
Glory wards Matt off, a hand on his chest, her other hand cradling the plate. Touching him burns. She drops her hand, drops her eyes. Why can’t this be a book? The floor would open up, swallow her whole.
Matt takes a step back, runs his hand through his hair, perfects his bedhead.
She shoves the plate at him. “Mom had us bake these this morning to say thanks for bringing Becca home.”
“It was my fault,” Ben says, hiding behind his bangs. “If I hadn’t yanked her off the monkey bars . . . ”
“It was an accident, Ben.” Glory and Matt speak at the same time.
Glory tears her eyes from Matt. It is safer to focus on the younger boy. “It was an accident, Ben. No big.”
Ben looks up.
Becca pokes him with her crutch. “No big. But could I sit down now?”
“Right. Head into the living room.” Matt passes the plate to Ben, rubs his hands together. “Can’t have cookies without milk. Be right back.”
Glory follows Ben. The room is dark even though the faded velour drapes are pulled wide open. She stops short at the sight of the obnoxious brown and yellow plaid couch. The back is woven and the front is brown vinyl. There’s a wretched orange armchair and an ancient three-shaded pole lamp in the corner. Her eyes roam the two book shelves. She itches to run her fingers down the spines of the books, to see if The Grapes of Wrath is there.
Matt returns with a jug of milk settled in the crook of his arm, a mug hanging from one finger, three plastic glasses pinched in his other hand. “Sorry. Don’t have a lot of dishes.”
“You should do some garage-saling,” Becca says.
“That’s a good idea,” Matt says quickly, drops the milk jug into Ben’s lap. The boy jumps. “Gotta do something to make this ugly-ass furniture look better.”
“This place had furniture?” Glory asks.
Matt slaps his hand against the sticky vinyl. “Do you think I’d let my dad get this fugly couch?” He pours the milk, Ben holding out the glasses and mug in turn.
“That’s a huge jug,” Becca says.
“Cheaper when it’s four litres,” Ben says.
The plastic jug groans in Matt’s hand. “No,” he says, has eyes only for his brother. He holds up the jug in a mock salute and says, “Milk. It’s the only beverage Justin Bieber doesn’t drink.”
Becca giggles.
Then the younger boy laughs, taps his glass to the jug Matt still holds. Matt’s shoulders drop and he smiles broadly.
Glory can’t look away. Matt’s face is as pale as the milk. And the smile does not reach his eyes.