“You cooked one egg, Gibs, under my supervision,” Joey, who was sitting on a stool at the center island, piped up. “You’re no Darina Allen.” “Thank fuck for that, Lynchy.” With the frying pan in his hand, Gibsie walked over to where my brother was sitting and slapped an egg onto his plate. “I like my man parts.” Reaching across the counter, Joey retrieved the tea-cozy-covered teapot and poured two cups of tea before swinging the pot in our direction. “Shan, Kavs, tea?” Gibs? Lynchy? Kavs? This was typical Joey—sparking up a friendship as easily as he could snap his fingers.
