I need to come up with a name for Logan’s penis. Preferably food related. And something more creative than any make of sausage.

It’s been two days since he deemed my boobs cookies, and I’ve narrowed it down to Pork Sword or Yogurt Slinger—both things I can barely type, let alone say aloud.

The bell above the door chimes and Lachlan Preston is there. “Hi, Red! Bye, Red!” And then he’s gone again.

I release the breath I’d been holding, startled when I saw him, as if he could somehow sense that I’d been thinking about his brother’s penis.

A half hour passes—I’ve added Meat Popsicle to the list—and Lachlan Preston is back. He doesn’t just pop his head in this time. His entire everything walks through the door, hands grasping the straps of his backpack. “I’m watching you,” I say, doing that lame two-finger point from my eyes to him.

He laughs, mumbles, “Sorry about the other day. Swear, I won’t do it again.” He drops his backpack by the counter and looks up at me with those blue-blue eyes of his.

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“Huh. You getting your girl something else?”

“We broke up,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Sucks. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “She’s going with Snot Eater now, so whatever.”

“Snot Eater sounds like a real stud. And she picked him over you?”

“I don’t really care,” he says, his head tilting. “I mean, I’m nine. It’s not like I’m going to marry the girl.”

I lean on the glass counter. “So, you’re going to play the field, huh?”

“Nah. I’m a one-woman kind of man. Like Cameron. Or Leo. I’m not like Logan.”

Well…

“My dad makes me come to Lucy’s shop after school until he gets off work. He says I’m too young to stay on my own. Lucy just sits there and reads books, and Cam’s always working. You think I can hang out here?”

“With me?” I ask, my eyes wide.

“Unless you're busy.”

I shake my head. “I’m not busy.”

“Cool.” He smiles that gap-toothed smile. “You need any help with anything? I can, like, clean or dust or something.”

“Dude, it’s so quiet here, all I do is clean and dust.”

He giggles the way nine-year-olds are supposed to and picks up his backpack, points to the armchair next to the counter. “Can I sit there?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Red. You’re a good friend.”

Friend.

I now have multiple friends. Too bad they all share the same genetics.

Lachlan sets himself up on the chair, school books on the table next to him.

“They got you doing homework young, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Do you know what you want to be when you’re older?”

He shrugs. “I’m nine, Red. Don’t be asking me such hard-hitting questions,” he says through a smirk.

“Right on.” I get on the laptop, open Spotify. “You want some music on while you work?”

He gets to his feet quickly, starts tapping away on the keyboard. A second later: “My balls. My balls. Put it in your booty hole.”

* * *

I let Lachlan choose the soundtrack for the afternoon. Maybe I should filter what he listens to, but it’s obvious he’s heard them all before. And maybe I shouldn’t be playing that kind of music in my store, but it’s not like I have any customers. I let him go on with his homework while I rearrange the window display, the order of the pens, the angle of the notebooks. When I get back to the counter, his textbooks are gone, replaced with a sketchbook. His eyes are narrowed, his bottom lip jutted out in concentration. Between his fingers, he holds a graphite pen. “Whatcha doin’ there?” I ask.

He looks up, dazed and confused, and slowly turns the sketchbook my direction. On the page, in gray lead, is an anime drawing of a kid with shiny hair, a scarf around his neck, thick jacket, hands shoved in his pockets. It’s so detailed, shaded to almost perfection, that I gasp at the sight of it. “That bad, huh?” he asks.

“No. Dude. This is…” I take the sketchbook from him, lift it higher. “This is insane. Did you copy this from somewhere?”

“No. I just thought it and drew it. Do you like it?”

“Dude…” It’s all I can say. “You’re amazing.”

“Yeah?” He sounds surprised.

“You’ve never been told how good you are?”

He shrugs.

“Do you draw a lot?”

“When no one’s looking, yeah.”

“What do you mean?”

Another shrug. “I’m a jock.”

“So?”

“A jock can’t be an artist.”

“Don’t do that, Lachlan. Don’t stereotype yourself. Ever. You are who you are, and you like what you like.”

“But Lucas was a jock.”

“And Lucas is…?”

“My oldest brother. Two above Logan. We’re both sprinters. He trains me. My family—they all come to watch my meets. It’s like… the only time they come together when they’re not forced to. So…”

“So… you like the attention?”

“No,” he says, taking the sketchbook and closing it. He shoves it back in his bag, as if it’s something that needs to be hidden. As if it’s a secret. With his back to me, he adds, “I like seeing them all together, though. I was, like, super young when Lucy went off to college, and then Lucas moved out, and Leo moved to Raleigh.”

“You still have Logan… and the twins, right?”

“The twins have each other, Red, and Logan’s not home much on weekends, so…”

I get between him and his backpack, knowing he’s about to leave. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What do you like more? Running or drawing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Drawing doesn’t bring my family together.” He moves around me, shoulders his backpack. “I better get back before Lucy knows I’m missing.”