Tatum insists on listening to Jimmy Buffett while we prep for our guests. I know if Hayes and Mom hear “Bubba” singing they’ll think Marissa was a Parrothead and assume Tatum is a Parakeet. Soon, they’ll torment me about naming our kids after his songs. Poet has a cousin named Tuesday, so I guess we can have a Monday after the song currently playing.

“This was one of Mom’s favorites,” Tatum says about “Come Next Monday.”

“But you swear she wasn’t a freak Parrothead.”

“Why are you so judgmental about weirdoes when you’re a weirdo yourself?”

“Because I’m a hypercritical weirdo, Tatum. Don’t try to change me. I’m too old for anything new to kick in.”

“Twenty-six isn’t too old.”

“It’s older than you think,” I say and kiss her furrowed forehead. “You’ll understand in a few years when you’re set in your ways.”

Tatum isn’t convinced, but she’s too thoroughly fucked to put up much of an argument. I swear she’d be happy to ice her pussy and nap if we didn’t have the family coming over for dinner.

Isaac drops off the ingredients necessary to make pizzas. I prep the dough and a shit load of fixings since no one in my family can decide on toppings. I’m ready to go by five while a yawning Tatum sits at the kitchen table. Whenever I catch her gaze, she gives me a sleepy grin. Her expression screams well-fucked, clear-headed, and stupid-in-love. That’s the look I want on her face forever. My lovestruck brain insists that keeping her happy will be easy. Logic no doubt will return in the near future.

Mom lets herself into the house and heads straight to the kitchen with Hayes’s brown and black Leonberger not far behind. D.B.—a.k.a. Dog Balthazar—trots to the back doors overlooking a frost-covered yard. He looks back at me, yawns, and then collapses into a sleepy lump.

“Balthazar is feeling clingy,” Mom says, retrieving herself a glass of ice tea, “so Hayes insisted we bring along the big baby.”

“I’m not a fucking baby,” Cap growls, entering the house and, of course, assumes we’re talking about him.”

“No, you’re a fucking angel from above,” I tell my brother. “Now quit your bitching and tell me what you want on your fucking pizza.”

“Pepperoni. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Don’t tempt me to give you a veggie pizza, boy.”

Hayes enters the house last, says nothing before finding a chair, and collapses with the same flair as his dog.

“Want a beer?” Mom asks him.

“Moonshine would be better. Beer and pizza give me gas.”

“He’s not kidding,” Mom says to me and winks at a smiling Tatum. “I nearly ended up in the guest room the last time he had a Meat Lovers.”

“Old people love is the best kind of love,” I murmur, eliciting a glare from my mother. “That was a compliment.”

“Stuff it, Chip. No one likes a smart-ass.”

We both laugh since smart-assery is our family’s bread and butter. I hope my kids one day torment me with sarcastic elderly comments. In fact, if they don’t, I’ll consider myself a failure as a father.

“You look tired,” Mom says to Tatum who only smiles. When my mother glances at me, she winks and whispers, “Knock her up before she can run.”

“She won’t run,” I whisper back. “She likes me, remember?”

“Don’t be naïve. Poet was smart enough to knock up Cricket and force her to settle.”

“Tatum isn’t settling with me. She wants to be with me.”

“Now, sure, but women are fickle. She’ll get bored of you soon and bolt for freedom. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a taste for bad men like Howler. No, you won’t keep her if you don’t get her knocked up lickety-split.”

I notice Hayes watching our conversation from his spot in the family room. My mother’s complete lack of faith in my ability to keep a woman satisfied leaves me hoping my father might throw me an assist. Maybe mention how I’m a catch or some shit. Instead, Hayes only shakes his head and grins.

“Wait,” I grumble to Mom. “Are you just cutting me down, so you’ll get a grandchild sooner?”

Sighing, Mom pats my shoulder. “I love you, but I’m not getting any younger, and I don’t want to be an old grandma. Now get that girl pregnant so I can enjoy my grandbabies while I’m still young enough to crawl around on the ground with them.”

“That’s cold, you know? My feelings were honest-to-goodness hurt.”

“Grow up, Chip. Life’s tough, and then your mother dies without a grandkid to cuddle.”

“You have two.”

Mom rolls her dark eyes. “Those are Cricket’s kids. I want to see what you produce.”

“Are you going to act this way with Cap?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” she asks, laughing and winking at Hayes. “I plan to pop holes in his condoms as soon as he meets a girl who doesn’t set off my gag reflex.”

“Oh, in that case, I forgive you. I refuse to be the only one tortured.”

“Big baby,” she says, hugging me tightly. “My big, stupid, second-born baby who needs to get moving.”

“I may have knocked her up last night.”

Mom pats my cheek. “Good boy. Howler’s gross, but he has good genes. Look at how old and healthy his sisters still are. Tatum comes from good stock, and she likes kids. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter-in-law.”

“So now I need to marry her too?”

“In God’s eyes, yes. In my eyes, I guess. In the law’s eyes, whatever.”

Mom walks away from me and sits on the couch near Cap who plays on his phone. The room remains too quiet with my parents staring out the back windows as if half asleep, and Tatum staring at me from the kitchen table. I’d worry about everyone falling asleep if I didn’t know Cricket and her loud bunch were five minutes out.