He really didn’t mean to stay out late with Kenny that night. It wasn’t, like, intentional or anything. Just one thing led to another, and he was never good at telling Kenny no anyway. Ever since they were kids—and she of all people should know that, they’d been together forever after all—he and Kenny just kind of…did stuff. Not necessarily stupid stuff (though yeah, a bunch of stupid stuff that he half-winces when he remembers—though the other half is mostly pride, so maybe he’s not quite as ashamed of it as she would like him to be) but just stuff. They were “a pair” as their grandma would exasperatedly hiss to their mom: which pair they imagined themselves changed daily, but it was always cool. Jim McMahon and Fred Barnett, mostly. Laurel and Hardy, once, when their grandma insisted on them staying indoors for once young men and watching some proper movies. Whoever it was, they were a duo—not a trio, never alone, always two. So what was he supposed to do when Kenny had an idea? Not support his brother? That wasn’t going to Fly Eagles Fly, and he wasn’t going to let Kenny down.

Yeah, somewhere along the line it had transitioned from not letting Kenny down by picking him up from practice or making sure they both tried out for the sports teams to not letting him down by keeping on drinking and partying past the hour Pammy wanted him home, but they were still brothers, and just because they weren’t in high school didn’t mean Kenny didn’t need him. Hell, if anything it meant he needed him more. Roy had his shit together, you know? He had Pammy, and a house, and a steady job, while Kenny was working odd jobs and bouncing between girlfriends and a steady relationship with his own right hand in a series of down-and-out apartments that weren’t quite on the up and up. So if he wanted to stay out a little longer, who could blame him? Certainly not Roy. If anything, he felt a little sad for Kenny, not having someone back at home who cared what he did or where he was. Sure, it was annoying when Pammy left those phone messages (“where are you?” was one of his least favorite questions, along with “when will you be back?”) but it was sweet that she cared. And she was always there when he came back in, however late it was, whichever day it was (since more than once…a lot more than once…he ended up sleeping the night off on Kenny’s most recent ratty couch purchase from a flea market). He loved that about her. He could always count on Pammy. Just like Kenny could count on him.

That’s how he knew they were meant to be: she was like family to him. Love was comfort, and Pammy was both.

But sometimes he wanted to slap Kenny upsides the head (mostly when he was still chatting up some girl at the bar long after anyone else would have noticed she wasn’t going for it, and Roy just wanted to get home to Pammy)—and sometimes he wanted to do the same to Pammy too. Not that he ever hit her, or that he ever would. He knew better than to touch a woman that way, even if it didn’t really hurt Kenny when he did it. But she could be just as annoying as Kenny sometimes. Like this time. Sure, he’d been out late. Sure, he hadn’t called. But he always came home. She knew that by now, right? He came home to her. Because he loved her.

But right now? She was angry, he could tell that in her eyes, from the way they kept skittering off of his, but not down to her feet. If she was sad or ashamed or (rarely) guilty, she’d look down. But now she was looking up and to the side, and that meant she was pissed. Words like “worried” and “scared to death” were peppered in with “drunk” and “irresponsible” and he was getting pretty tired of it. He’d been fine to drive. He got home, didn’t he? And what the hell was different about this night anyway? It wasn’t like they’d had plans. He and Kenny had gone out, and he’d asked permission (even though it felt stupid to—it’s not like she’d ever told him to stay in). So what the hell?

He got through her tirade, and he could tell exactly the moment she went from pissed to tired: her eyes flicked down and her hand went to her necklace, and he could tell it was time to suggest they go to bed. He knew better to than to suggest they do anything in bed—the nights she was angry, that was a surefire way to get her back on her high horse—but a good night’s sleep was just the ticket. She’d be back to normal in the morning, and he’d think of something to make it up to her—whatever it was he had to make up anyway. Maybe pancakes. She liked those.

And she’d come around. She always did. They were going to be married in a few weeks. And they were, after all, in love.