I laughed, wrapping my arms around her as I tried to keep my balance. “You act like I haven’t seen you in a year!”
“It’s been almost two months!” she said without letting me go.
I was immediately awash with guilt. “I know, I’m sorry.”
I’d kept in touch with everyone via text, but I hadn’t been home since before the Hunt. I didn’t have an excuse, especially since I’d been living a mile away in town, except that I hadn’t been sure I could lie to my parents about where I was living.
I still wasn’t, but my living situation had calmed down enough that I thought I could bluff my way through a conversation without giving away the details.
I pulled back to look at Olivia. “You look taller!”
I didn’t say the other thing that occurred to me: that she looked like June. She had June’s brown eyes and the same dimples when she smiled.
“You think?”
I nodded. “Definitely.”
“Hey,” Simon said, padding into the entry on bare feet.
“Oh my god,” I said. “You’re like, eight feet tall now.”
He blushed and gave me the kind of awkward hug that only a seventeen-year-old boy could give his sister. “Glad you came home.”
“Like I’d miss Dad’s meatballs.”
“Ah, so it’s the food that finally brought you back,” my dad said, entering the foyer from the living room.
I released Simon and walked into my dad’s arms. “Very funny.”
“I’m not being funny!” He squeezed me tight and I inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave mingled with garlic and olive oil. “Happy birthday, kid.”
“Thanks.” I pulled away. “Where’s Mom?”
“Kitchen. I’ve put her to work as my sous chef since you’ve been gone.”
“Oh boy.” My mom was notoriously horrible in the kitchen. Not as bad as Reva — mostly because my mom didn’t bother trying to cook anything — but bad enough that I broke a sweat when she wielded a knife near a sweet potato.
“It’s a work in progress.” My dad threw his arm around my shoulders and we walked through the living room into the kitchen. “The prodigal daughter returns.”
My mom barely looked up at the announcement, and I immediately knew that she was pissed.
“Hi, Mom.” I went around the island to give her a hug, but she was busy drying romaine, her hug half-hearted.
“Happy birthday!” She tried to sound cheerful, but I knew my mom well enough to know it was forced.
“Thanks. Dad said he put you to work.”
She returned her focus to the salad spinner. “Unfortunately.”
Clearly I’d have to do some damage control.
“I can help.” I went to the hooks on the wall and chose one of the aprons that hung there, a pink striped number that I still considered mine. “Put me in, coach.”
My dad lifted the lid of a pot on the stove and the kitchen filled with the scent of cooked meat and rich tomato sauce. “It’s your birthday.”
“Exactly,” I said, “and I want to cook with my dad.”
“If you insist.” He smiled and handed me a cutting board and two loaves of French bread, and for the next half hour, I forgot all about my strange new life in the loft across town, if not about the three men who’d captured more than my imagination.
