“Dunno. Just a vibe.” She pulls out a bottle of brandy. “This?”
“And maybe rum, too.”
“How about you guys? Do you and Garrett ever fight about kids?”
I think about what he said in the truck on the drive here. “We used to. Not that I realized it at the time.”
“What does that mean?” Jules finds a bottle of spiced rum.
I grab the shaker.
Arms full, we cross to the counter closest to the fridge.
“We need cinnamon and nutmeg,” I tell her.
She finds the spices, then grabs the shaker from me and immediately adds ice.
“Not yet,” I tell her.
She ignores me and starts free pouring booze.
I roll my eyes and cover the eggs as she reaches for them. “Baby, you don’t shake the eggs with ice.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Literally by reading the recipe?”
“I skimmed it.”
“Get the hand mixer. We might as well make a big batch, anyway, because I bet Dad will drink a few.”
I start separating egg yolks from the whites, and by the time she’s found the mixer, I have the yolks in a bowl with cream, milk, and sugar, and the whites in a separate bowl.
Holding out my hand, I use my bossiest big sister energy to demand the appliance. She lets me take that part over, but my punishment is more questions about having babies.
“Garrett wants kids and you don’t,” she says under the loud whir of the motor, as if that’s a statement of fact. It’s not.
“I wanted to wait more than he did. And so the default is waiting.”
“He was watching you when you had one of the twins on your hip.”
I ignore the flash of heat that zaps through me, burning like I’ve just done a shot of the spiced rum. “He was probably wondering how such a small person could make so much noise.”
“You or the child?”
I test the egg whites. “Shut up.”
“So are you still waiting?”
I know it’s an innocent question—as innocent as nosy Jules can ever be. She thinks Garrett and I are still together, and I just said that we both wanted kids…at some point.
“It’s complicated,” I manage to say around a lump in my throat. “This is pretty good. Let’s switch bowls.”
She lets me focus on making the nog. Once the yolk mixture is creamy, I fold everything together. “Now let’s add the booze.”
Jules goes to dump in the shaker, ice and all.
“No! Strain it off—” Suddenly frustrated, I grab the shaker and do it myself.
