I just stood at his words, looked at Dylan, who was smirking at my brother’s comments, and told her I was done for the night and would call her next week. I shoved my brother from his barstool so hard that he fell to the floor, and I went upstairs. To think there was actually a time in my life when I looked up to that prick.

I was starving by the time I woke up for breakfast. It had been months since I’d been able to sleep in past 8 a.m., let alone until 10. I threw on a pair of shorts and my old high school championship shirt and jogged down the stairs only to find Jason sitting at the breakfast bar, sheets of his newspaper spread out across every inch of surface and a plate of waffles stacked in front of him.

“Mornin’ shithead,” he said, raising his cup of coffee and not looking up from his paper.

“Fuck off,” I said right back at him.

When I realized Rose was there, finishing up a plate for me and prepping a breakfast tray to take upstairs to dad, I instantly felt embarrassed and guilty for using those words in front of her. Rose had known me almost as long as my parents and was, in many ways, like an aunt to me. She’d lost her husband years ago and had two grown sons that were both in the military, lifers she always said. I think it made her lonely, which is probably why she didn’t mind spending so much time with my pops.

“Sorry, Rosie,” I said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, which she had extended out for me.

“It’s okay, mijo...,” she urged me to come in close, then whispered, “he deserved it.” She gave me a wink and then slid my plate on the counter and retreated upstairs with a full breakfast spread for my dad.

I picked at my plate a bit before diving in, my stomach rolling with hunger pangs, but also conflicted with anger at my brother and what he said about Nolan. I was pretty sure he knew how pissed off I was because he had buried his face in the business section and refused to even glance my way. I just stared at him while I drenched my waffles in syrup, fighting the urge to send my fist through his jaw. “You’re such a dick,” I said a little under my breath. I bowed my head and took a bite but could tell he had glanced up when I said it, tilting his paper down for a second, and then raising it back up.

“Whatever,” he wasn’t even phased.

Stuffed on Rosie’s amazing breakfast, I brought my plate to the sink and was rinsing it when I heard feet sliding down the stairs. I did a double take when I looked up, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to finally focus and relay the message to my brain of what I was seeing.

“Good morning,” Dylan said as she passed me and went to the fridge to pull out the carton of orange juice. She turned around while she was shaking it. “Glasses?”

I just stood there dumbstruck, my brain unwilling to make the connections of what likely had happened last night. I motioned to the cabinet next to the fridge, and Dylan just nodded and turned to get her glass. While she was pouring her juice, I looked over at Jason who still had his f**king nose in the newspaper. I pushed the pages from his hands flat to the counter and mouthed, “What the f**k?” to him. He just smiled and shrugged, then picked the paper back up.

Dylan slid a stool over next to him and turned sideways to swing her legs over his lap, which was maybe the only thing that finally got him to put his paper down. When he leaned over and kissed her and smiled as she nestled into his neck, I was floored.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What does it look like?” Jason said, sliding his coffee cup over to me and motioning for me to fill it up. “You mind?”

I just shook my head, my eyes bulging from my face, I was sure. I grabbed his mug and filled it with what was left of the morning’s brew. I slid it back to him and then looked again at Dylan, who was now hiding her face a little from me, perhaps a little embarrassed.

“Reed, I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed one of your shirts,” she said, pulling up the collar a bit to show me.

I just stared, speechless, and turned for the living room. I flopped on the couch and put on Sports Center to take my mind away from the soap opera that was no doubt unfolding in the kitchen, somehow my future tangled up with it, too. “Fucking Jason,” I thought.

I zoned out for about 45 minutes before I heard the sound of the breakfast stools skid on the floor and turned to see Dylan cleaning up the counter, her bare legs barely covered in my long shirt. I had to admit, I understood why Jason couldn’t help himself. But I would never quite understand what was in it for her. I turned back to the TV and then glanced down at my watch.