We Have Till Monday

I had to look like a fucking question mark, but it didn’t seem like I was gonna get any further clarification.

Maybe Camden wanted to learn how to play the guitar or something. It was the only reasonable explanation.

“I don’t have any plans.” I shrugged with one shoulder.

“Great.” He gestured past the gate. “Just follow me.”

Not for the first time lately, I wondered what the hell I was doing.

We got back into our trucks, and I drove after him, past the gate and up the long road that slanted over an expansive hill. And once we reached the top and started descending, it became clear exactly where we were. This was the background to most of their cooking videos.

A large ranch sat at the bottom of the hill, pristine white against the green grass. Only the center of the house had two stories. Then there was a left wing and a right wing.

Did the two live here alone?

A stand-alone building was to the left, a large carport, housing three cars already.

As I got closer, I drove past a sign that directed left for parking and right for “staff only.” That dirt road disappeared somewhere behind the house.

I followed King past the circular driveway and toward the garage, where I took the last available spot next to his truck.

Everything was mind-numbingly big, and I hadn’t even seen the entire property. But mannaggia, coming from New York, everything larger than a shoe box was impressive.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I left my truck, and I opened a message from Nicky.

Just remember.

There was a link to one of the songs we’d performed together. The title, “Count on Me,” made me smile. He was a good kid, my brother. I appreciated his reminder that I could call him whenever.

Pocketing my phone, I stepped out of the carport and took in my surroundings. Clear blue sky, trees in bloom, sun shining, and fuck me if I didn’t hear country music coming from somewhere nearby.

“This is some sight, man.”

August slid me an easy smile. “Welcome to the South.”

Aside from being all but dead on my feet from driving so long, my mood had lifted. The nerves and unsettlement—gone.

The house appeared to have two main entrances, one on each side of what I banked on being the kitchen. I knew that large window at the center from all the videos.

“Is this a workin’ ranch?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. My sister breeds horses here,” King replied. “A bit of a drive, though.” He gestured over the house. “She has her own house about two miles that way.”

Jesus. Two miles on the same land.

King led the way indoors through the left entrance, and I was met by the scents of wood, coffee, and spices.

Past the small entryway, you could veer left down a hall with several doors, or right, which led straight into the wide-open kitchen and dining area. Old and rustic met trendy and state-of-the-art. Flooring, rugs, beamed ceiling, and built-in shelves looked like they came straight from the 1800s, whereas the appliances and work surfaces appeared brand-new.

On the other side of the open space was a den of some sort that was lowered into the ground, framed with plush couches and a fireplace. The windows there were even larger, and they revealed a pool and barbecue area right outside. And more green hills.

Some people lived like this.

“Camden?” August called, walking farther in. “I’m surprised he wasn’t waggin’ his tail at the door when we came in.”

I copied his move and kicked off my shoes before trailing into the kitchen.

There was a big Dutch oven on the stove, a name I knew only because I’d bought one for Nonna for her birthday once.

“Eh, the boy will show up,” August said. “I gotta go back out and get the groceries for tonight. You get comfortable on the patio.” He nodded to the fridge next to the other entrance. “Grab yourself a beer or a Coke—or there’s coffee on the counter.”

“You need any help?” I asked. I didn’t know how many were showing up, but I was guessing most of the participants.

“No, that’s fine.” He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze as he passed me. “If you drove all the way from New York, you must be tired.”

I was, and I also liked that firm grip of his.

Then it was just me.

I couldn’t stop looking around the kitchen. How many times had I opened a video to this view? Now I was here. In their kitchen.

The walls in the kitchen area were filled with shelved pots, pans, old tins, and pictures. Squeaky-clean countertops along the large bay window with practically nothing on them, except for a coffee machine—the fancy kind that gave you espresso and shit—and what looked like a deep fryer. Then those cluttered walls. But it fit, somehow.

I ghosted my hand over the countertop on the island as I slowly made my way to the fridge.