"You're chopping those veggies like they did something to you," my mom says, her back to me as she stirs a pot on the stove.

I look down at the onion that I've minced into pieces so small it practically looks like it's been pulverized. "Nope," I say. "Just chopping vegetables."

"Is Cassie coming for dinner this time?" my mom asks, her voice innocent.

"Nope." I clench the knife tightly in my hand, my other hand balled into a fist at my side.

"Are you going to spend the night sulking?" my mom asks.

"I'm not sulking. I'm irritated because you won't lay off about Cassie."

"Have you forgotten that I made it through you and Drew's teenage years?" she asks. "I know sulking when I see it."

"Well, this isn't it," I say, the edge in my voice unmistakable. "I'm just standing here chopping vegetables."

"And sulking," my mother adds.

"I'm not sulk—"

"He made her cry." Tank appears in the kitchen out of nowhere.

"Shut up about shit you don't know anything about, Tank," I growl.

"You did what?" My mother whirls around and crosses her arms across her chest.

"I'm not talking about this," I say. "Especially not in the middle of the goddamn house. It's none of your business. That goes for both of you."

"It's my business when I see her crying," Tank says.

"What did you do?" my mother asks me, glaring at me with her hand on her hip.

"Stay out of it, both of you," I say.

Tank shakes his head. "Cassie says she fucked things up," he starts, addressing my mother.

I set down the knife on the counter and clench my hands. "Leave it alone, Tank."

"But I'm not seeing how a girl like her did something to mess things up," Tank says. "Did you fuck a cheerleader and make her think it was her fault?"

"You fucked a cheerleader?" my mother asks.

I push Tank hard. "I didn't screw anyone except her. So fuck off."

Tank pushes me back, sending me stumbling backward across the kitchen. "She told me not to kick your ass tonight."

"Screw you, Tank," I spit. "You think you know anything about her because you're fucking her roommate?"

"I know you're here acting like a shithead and she's over there crying and saying she loves you. I don't need to know any more than that."

She loves me.

The statement stops me in my tracks for a second, but I quickly shove that thought aside.

"You don't know shit," I spit back, a flood of anger bubbling up inside me from somewhere that I can't seem to contain. I'm pissed off at my mother for not letting up about Cassie. I'm pissed off at Cassie for not telling me about her thesis – and for assuming she knows jack shit about football players. Or me. And I'm pissed off at Tank for fucking walking in here and dropping that little bombshell like it's no big fucking deal when I'm pissed off at her.

She loves me.

I'm not sure why I lunge at Tank, but I do, and then he pushes me backward hard against the door and it cracks loudly.

"Boys, not before dinner," my mom yells.

We stumble outside and Tank pushes me. "Quit being a dick," he says. "You want me to hit you or what?"

"Bring it on, Tank," I yell. "Since you want to run your big fucking mouth all the time."

A blast of water hits us.

My mother stands a few yards away, holding the garden hose. "Cut it out, both of you," she says calmly. "Now the two of you can fix the kitchen door you broke."

"Yes, ma'am," Tank says, giving me a dirty look before walking toward the house.

I follow him, still irritated but not as much now. My brother and I used to fight all the time, and my mom used to spray us with the hose or dump a pitcher of water – complete with lots of ice cubes – over us. Sometimes she'd walk up close to us and blast an air horn in our ears. It's a fucking wonder I don't have hearing loss.

"Fix that door and both of you get to peeling me some potatoes."