And despite my anger, I laugh as he swings me around.

He sets me down, and Iron brings me in for a hug. “Congratulations, kiddo.”

“Thanks.”

Dallas and Army walk up behind them, parents and everyone else on the bleachers slowly spilling into the parking lot to head home.

I look around. “Where’s Macon?”

He said he’d come to this one.

But by the look in Army’s eyes, I already know the answer. “Had to stay and get shit done, kid.”

Yeah. I look away. I know.

“Come on.” Trace nudges me, trying to cheer me up. “Mariette’s. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Iron adds, taking my gear bag from me.

They pull me along, some of the girls leaving with their parents who came to watch, too, and others celebrating in the parking lot.

We pile into the truck, Iron tosses my bag into the bed, and Dallas starts the engine. I peer out the window as he shifts it into gear, seeing Clay leaning against the bus and scrolling through her phone.

It’s not unusual until I notice our other teammates laughing with friends and getting hugs from proud parents. Don’t Clay’s parents usually come to the games? Thinking back, I guess I can’t remember.

Maybe I should be less mad Macon never shows and just be grateful someone does.

“So, your birthday’s soon,” Army says from the front seat.

“Huh?”

He turns his head, looking at me. “The twenty-ninth. It’s in a little over a week.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “What are you getting me?”

A car? Please say it’s a car.

“A stripper,” he replies.

Trace and Iron laugh, but I’m not impressed, because he’s most likely not joking. “I have taste you can’t afford.”

“What are you talking about?” he replies. “Flamingo Flo’s has top-notch ladies.”

“Flamingo Flo’s employs hillbilly meth-heads,” I shoot back.

Army snorts, and everyone laughs again, knowing that’s all too true, and I sit back, shaking my head.

But my smile fades a little. They’re just joking, but they wouldn’t be against it, either. Would they suggest getting me a stripper if I were into guys? No, they only feel the need to protect me from men, as if my relationships with women are less of a threat. As if they’re not real.

They would never let a man give me a lap dance.

I stare out the window, the music blasting and Trace digging into the cooler between us and cracking a beer.

I’ll miss them, but… I’m dying to leave here. To feel like I belong somewhere. To maybe meet someone.

I don’t have anything here.

There’s no one like me.

• • •

“Up!” Army shouts.

Everyone lifts their glasses into the air, clinking as the cheap tiki torches around the patio of Mariette’s burn in the evening air, and I smile, absolutely taking the shot of Patrón Army lets me have, since Macon’s not around.

“This could be it!” We all shout back in unison. “Salud!”

“Salud!” Army follows.

We shoot the tequila, my brothers laughing at me when I immediately chase it with a sip of Coke.

As long as they’re around, I can typically have a drink or two, but the quick plummet from “I feel fantastic and love everyone” to “Oh my God, what have I done?”, and wasting a whole day recovering from a hangover, was a lesson I only needed to learn once. Ever since, I drink sparingly and almost never hard liquor.

But it’s a special occasion tonight. I just scored four goals, I got into Dartmouth, my birthday is coming up, and the lawyer got Iron off with community service if he promises to also attend counseling.

As if a therapist is going to help my brother not slam a waiter’s head into a table for getting smart with him. I wish I could say Iron risks his freedom for something more substantial, like money or power, but honestly, I’d think less of him if he were that shallow. The anger, I understand.

And he only uses it on others. Never his family.

We sit outside, the sea breeze beyond the swamp blowing through the cypresses and tupelos, the scent of the moss stinging my nostrils, but quickly calmed by the sand and salt following it.

Everyone slams their glasses down on the wooden table, the wind cooling my scalp and making the umbrellas flap overhead.

I dig into my ice cream sundae as Aracely drops two platters of crawfish onto the table and sits. She dated Iron, then Dallas, and now Army uses her to help with Dex, even though she’s not his mother. We all know she’s just in between brothers temporarily, so she just kind of sticks around as an honorary member of the family to help out. And to be a pain in my ass. Like the sister I never wanted.

Army fills his beer from the pitcher, and Dallas and Trace dig into the seafood, pinching off the tails, sucking the heads, and grab the meat with their teeth. In no time, the newspaper covering the table is littered with decapitated crawdads, and I laugh as Army shows his son how to peel a shell.

I stare at Dex, my smile faltering. I’m going to miss a lot when I do leave, won’t I? His first steps and first words. And after I’m gone, who will be next? Trace, maybe? He’s searching for his niche away from our older brothers.

Dallas, most definitely. All he’s waiting for is someone to go first and give him permission to seek out the things Macon tells us we’re selfish for wanting.

Army will marry someone to give Dex a mom, and Iron may end up in prison regardless of whether or not I stay.

But I look around the table at all the faces, the big smiles and bright eyes and how they look like they have everything they need, right here, right now, because we have each other.

It’s not enough for me. It’s never been enough. But I don’t want it to change either. When I come back home, I want to know they’re here. All of them. On our land. Safe and sound.

The key sits in the bag on the back of my chair, weighing heavy on my mind.

I wish Macon was here. Not at home, avoiding us, too consumed with his responsibilities to enjoy his family.

I don’t remember my father well. There are images. Feelings. That’s it. I was too young, but when I think about what I do remember, it’s almost as if he was another brother. He never disciplined me, yelled at me, or lost his temper. Iron and Dallas took the lead on that when I made a mess or failed a test or sassed back.

My father, I only saw at the end of the day. When he was tired. Relaxed. Happy to be home from work. I would sit with him on the recliner, eating popcorn and watching Ironman. It was like spending time with Trace, my friends, or a grandpa you only spent minimal hours with once a month.

Macon had joined the military by the time I was old enough to remember anything. Significantly older than me, he was the one I feared when I should’ve feared my father. Here was this soldier I didn’t know walking through our front door once a year, always lurking around the perimeter of a room, there but never quite present. He didn’t smile as easily as Army, or crack jokes like Trace. I never felt safe enough to wrap myself around his leg, torturing him until he gave me a brownie like I did with Dallas, and he was never around to protect me like Iron.

And while I knew he was my parents’ first and was raised in our house, I started to wonder more as I grew older if he’d ever really lived with any of these people. I wasn’t the only one he seemed cold to.