First message
The phone starts vibrating against my coffee table at eleven in the fucking morning.
I ignore it.
It stops.
Starts again.
Jesus Christ.
I reach blindly for it, knocking an empty beer bottle against the remote before managing to grab the thing. Nate's name flashes across the screen. What?
There's a pause.
Good morning to you, too, you miserable prick.
You're calling me before noon. Someone better be dead.
Nobody's dead. I need a favor.
Now somebody's going to be.
Nate ignores me. He has a remarkable talent for doing that, probably developed over 22 years of having me as an older brother. She's moving back.
I stare at the ceiling. Who?
You know who.
Oh. Her.
Haven't seen her in a while. Not properly, anyway. She's been gone long enough that the town's probably managed to forget she exists, which is impressive considering how small this place is and how little anyone around here has going on.
Do I look like a fucking moving company?
Jace, come on. She needs help with furniture. I can’t do it alone.
Tragic.
12 o’clock. Please.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face.
Fine. But you owe me.
You're a saint.
I'm hanging up now.
I toss my phone onto the couch and stare at it for a moment.
Her.
Haven't seen her in a while. Wonder if she's still as annoying as she was when we were kids.
Probably.
I finish the warm beer, grab my keys, and head for the door.
Fucking moving day.