“You know,” he said, not looking at me, “the rope swing was probably fine. The fecal coliform thing. I was just scared.”
“Why do you come down here every year if everything we do is wrong, everything we eat is garbage, and everything we say sounds stupid to your fancy Yankee ears?” My Only Bitchy Cousin Is a Yankee-Type Guy- The...
“Your oregano is expired,” he announced on his first visit, holding the jar like it was a dead rat. “And the way you store your olive oil next to the stove is degrading the polyphenols.” “You know,” he said, not looking at me,
“I know,” I said, sitting down next to him. “You’re a terrible liar.” “And the way you store your olive oil
I pushed him off the dock.
His name is Bradley, but I’ve called him “Bratley” in my head since we were nine. He’s my only cousin on my mother’s side—my only cousin, period—and he is a Yankee-Type Guy. Not just a guy from the North, mind you. He’s the stereotype . The one who thinks sweet tea is an abomination, that “bless your heart” is a declaration of war, and that any temperature above 72 degrees is a personal insult from God.
I stood up. “Bradley,” I said, sweet as pie, “I have a question.”