The Anti-hero (The Goode Brothers)

My mother cooks once a week, naturally, on Sunday. Since my father has the house fully staffed with chefs and housekeepers, there is really no need. But my mother, bless her soul, complains that Sunday dinner doesn’t taste the same when someone else makes it.

All this to say, my mother is old-fashioned.

And if my bitter, selfish brothers can offer her one thing in this life, the least they can do is show up for lasagna or chicken potpie once a week.

“Our Heavenly Father, bless this meal and the family at this table. We thank you for all these blessings and for the fortune to be together on this holy day. Amen.” My father’s voice takes on that deep, commanding preaching tone when he says grace—the same voice he uses in the church each week. But as soon as the blessing is done, he turns to my brother, Caleb, on his right and asks him to pass the sweet tea in a more casual and familiar inflection.

Growing up, I hated to hear my father preach. He didn’t start until I was seven, and it felt so strange to me. Like watching your parents be anything other than your parents. His tone, pitch, and even the vocabulary he used when he was preaching all felt so…rehearsed.

With time, though, I grew to appreciate it. I learned to separate my father, the man, from my father, Truett Goode, the most famous pastor in all of Texas.

“The sermon was beautiful today, Adam,” my mother mumbles quietly to me as she smears butter over her biscuit. “You’re a wonderful writer.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“I liked the part about the Cowboys,” my brother, Lucas, adds.

I chuckle cynically as I glance sideways at him. “I thought you hated the Cowboys.”

“Oh, I do, but I liked how you related their draft pick to the Rapture.”

My muffled laughter draws the eyes of my family around the table. Across from me, Caleb furrows his brow as he mouths, “The Rapture?”

“You had to be there,” I retort, at which Caleb rolls his eyes.

There are four of us boys, three at this table. The twins, Caleb and Lucas, are five years younger than me. And they both went their separate ways from the church as soon as their tuition was paid and they were officially on their own.

Caleb got married right out of college. A few years later, he and his wife, Briar, had a baby—Abigail. At only five and a half, she’s easily the cutest kid this whole family has ever seen. With big brown eyes and perpetually tangled brown hair, she’s never not smiling or somehow manipulating the rest of us to get whatever she wants.

My youngest brother, Isaac, hasn’t been at this table in years. I quickly do the math in my head as I stare at his empty seat. Eight years. His absence stings, so I swallow down the memory and look away before the burn becomes noticeable.

As I reach across the table to retrieve a biscuit from the porcelain bowl, I’m suddenly reminded of the petite frame and bright smile of my unexpected breakfast companion last week.

To be honest, I’ve been thinking about her nearly every day since. Like a scent I picked up in the diner that’s clung to my clothes, catching a whiff every time I move or inhale.

And it’s surprisingly pleasant.

Such a strange woman, and yet, we seemed to get along so naturally. So much so that I wish we could have talked longer. I would have gladly sat next to her for the rest of the day, joking about the appropriate breakfast foods to cover with ketchup or whether I was too conservative for nightclubs.

Was this a sign that I needed to put myself out there more?

If she had been a more fitting match for me—and didn’t have a boyfriend—would I have asked for her number? Invited her out on a date?

When was the last time I felt chemistry so potent? I’ve nearly forgotten how intoxicating it is. For one word to turn into an hour of conversation. And then a touch. And then a kiss. And then an explosion of ravenous hunger that lies dormant for too long.

I’ve been on enough dating apps to know you don’t find that sort of spark on blind dates. It’s more like lightning, and now I’m forced to wait and hope it strikes again—preferably with a more suitable match.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” I glance up from the roasted chicken on my plate to see my mother watching me with concerned interest. A comforting smile stretches across my face.

“Of course, Mom. I’m good.”

She looks pleased, her eyes wrinkling at the corners as she grins in return. My mother is an angel, sometimes too good for the rest of us. There’s even a running joke in the family that the only truly pious one out of all of us is her—silent and sweet Melanie Goode.

My mother would rather sew her own mouth shut before ever daring to utter a negative word about anyone.

“Lucy Clayborn asked about you at the service this morning,” she utters quickly before filling her mouth with mashed potatoes.

My smile is forced as I nod. “Oh? How is she?”

Naturally, waiting until her mouth is empty, she finally replies, “She’s good. Such a beautiful girl. I can’t believe she’s not married yet.”

Subtle.

“Well, she’s running a business, Mom. I doubt she has time for dating.”

“I know,” she replies. “But a business is hardly a replacement for companionship and a family.”

My brows rise as I consider that the last I heard, Lucy’s cycle studio was expanding with three more locations and a crew of celebrity instructors. I’m willing to bet companionship is the last thing on Lucy’s mind.

“I think she’s always had a crush on you,” my mother adds. I feel Lucas’s eyes on my face and I shoot him a quick help me glance.

But when he only laughs to himself, offering me no lifeline out of this conversation, I toss him under the bus. “Luke’s single.”

Of course, this makes my mother uncomfortable, and I instantly regret it. She’s not willing to set her church friend’s daughter up with the least Christian son she has. Or at least that’s what the elephant in the room is screaming.

“Oh, my sweet Luke is so handsome too,” my mother says in a singsong voice as she turns to sweep his wavy brown hair out of his face. Then she brushes his cheek before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the spot.

His lips press together tightly to express his discomfort before quietly uttering, “Thanks, Ma.”

“It would be so nice to see my boys settle down—especially you, Adam.”

Why, in that moment, do I think of my new rose-haired friend? The thought of her at the table with us, striking up a conversation with my mother or Caleb’s wife, Briar, is so ridiculous it nearly makes me laugh. Those tiny ripped shorts in our dining room. Tattoos and piercings at this table. They’d all think I lost my mind—especially the man at the head of the table.

I’m sure the conversation would be awkward and hilarious at the same time. She’d make my mother blush and my father scowl. Lucas and Caleb would be obsessed with her if only for the chaos she would wreak on our home. If Isaac were here, he’d adore her.

Get out of your head, Adam.

Maybe I should just take Lucy out. I bet dating a successful career woman would be easier anyway. No need to impress her. Things could be simple. Just going through the motions. Sex, intimacy, affection—all surface level, but that would be perfect. It wouldn’t require much. It would tick all the necessary boxes.

My father would most certainly approve.

That’s what I need—a safe, practical relationship, even if it doesn’t sound all that exciting.

“Perhaps you could ask her to the charity dinner next month,” my mother adds persistently, just as I take the last bite on my plate.

“I’ll think about it,” I reply, although I could very well just tell my mother to coordinate it. Like a little matchmaker, she’d have Lucy’s mother on the phone in minutes and the whole thing would be meticulously orchestrated without an ounce of effort from me.

But I don’t. Something holds me back.

I’m not exactly sure what. Maybe it’s the energy required in dating. Or the fact that as beautiful as Lucy Clayborn is, I don’t find myself particularly attracted to her. I haven’t once reminisced about the shape of her lips or the playful cadence of her voice.

Perhaps what’s really stopping me is the pink-foiled business card in my wallet—and the opportunity it represents.