He smiles, but with purpose. “Lock up, alright?”
The irritation that sparked when Oakley called is dead on arrival once I walk in the door and spy my youngest sister on the sofa, curled beneath a fleecy throw with a tissue stuck up her nose. Last night she mentioned a scratchy throat.
Oh brother. Getting sick is the last thing I need.
She raises herself onto her elbow. “Did you get the trash can?”
I set my purse on a chair and shrug out of my coat. “I did.”
“Sorry. I kept meaning to go do that, but I feel just awful.”
“You look awful.” As awful as is possible for Oakley. Of the three sisters, she won the DNA lottery, her prize lush blonde hair and a perfect frame every man notices.
Tonight, the mass of hair is banded at the crown of her head, creating a fountain effect. She throws it back, contaminating the cushion where the non-sickies of the family might want to sit. “I hate colds. And I can’t think straight to study when I feel this way.”
Oakley is determined to become a doctor one day, but she’s in the un-fun stage of working parttime while applying to medical schools and is supposed to be using every spare moment of her life to study for entrance exams.
My feet beg me to stay off them. I choose Dad’s recliner, the most distant seating option, and crank the handle until the footrest pops out. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling good.”
Oakley’s sigh gurgles. “I don’t have time for this!”
“Yeah, well, my one request is that you keep your germs to yourself.”
“I’ll do my best.” She fists the red and green blanket at her chin. “How was your day?”
Day? Blah. Evening? Interesting. “It was fine.”
Her glassy eyes perk. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You hesitated before answering.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. Tell your sissy. Is Marlene giving you TMI about her dating life again?”
I shiver. Boy, those were some uncomfortable conversations for an awkward, sheltered sixteen-year-old. “Goodness no, thankfully. Just boring as ever, is all. It’s, well…this guy came in tonight…”
“Ooo. A guy?” She hauls herself into a semi-upright position. Blonde strands are matted to her left cheek. “Tell, tell.”
“Who says there’s anything to tell?”
“Don’t be difficult, Ev.”
Fair enough. Playing dumb wastes both our time because the endgame of this verbal sparring is predetermined. Younger or not, Oakley is my sister and knows me well. I begin the tale with the account of a nameless guy leaving without paying—or not—and then him turning out to be a pretty decent person.
Oakley claps her hands together. “Oh, this is good stuff! What’s his name?”
“What makes you think I asked?”
“Everly,” she deadpans. “You asked the guy to help you carry boxes. A name is the obvious next step.”
I stare. “I did not ask his name.”
“Oh.” She droops, sulky, as if I’ve ruined her own personal bedtime story.
“His name is Knox.”
