I nod, because I know, she already decided the only children she ever wants in her life are mine.
I pull her into my arms, rubbing her back. “You’re amazing and perfect, and you’re gonna find your person. I know it.”
She melts into the hug… until suddenly going stiff. She pulls back, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you buttering me up?”
“I-what… I would never-” I blubber, hand flying to my chest. “I’m offended-”
She keeps staring, deadpan, arms crossing like a judgmental cow.
I wilt instantly.
“Okay fine,” I mutter, surrendering. “You know how Patrick and I never get any personal time together? One where neither of us has to hide?”
“Uh-huh.” Her eyebrow shoots up.
“Well…” I press my palms together like I’m praying, because honestly, I am. “We were thinking, like, about going away for our wedding anniversary last month.”
Her stare sharpens.
“We couldn’t do it without somehow setting off smoke signals to his family,” I rush out, “so we were really hoping, wondering, begging, if you would watch the kids for us.”
I finish with my hands clasped under my chin like a Victorian orphan asking for bread.
Genesis narrows her eyes. “Are you gonna get laid?”
I stare at her. Look away. Stare again. I consider lying, truly, deeply consider it, then sigh and admit shamefully. “...Ya.”
Her face softens instantly.
“Fine,” she says, flicking her wrist in a grand, dismissive flourish. “Only because-” she waves her open palm at me like she’s presenting a prize, “I’mhopingyou’ll come home in a better mood.”
My jaw drops. “Gen-”
“Don’t ‘Gen’ me,” she says, already walking toward the fridge like she didn’t just give me her blessing to have hotel sex with my own husband. “You’ve been as moody as Agnes during a blowout.”
“I havenot,” I sputter.
Genesis doesn’t even dignify that with a glance. She’s pattering around the fridge, humming like some domestic menace. “Are you prepared?”
“Huh?” I blink.
She turns, holding a block of cheese. “Waxed, sweetie. Waxed. You can’t make a man wait eighteen months and then make him dig through the-”
“STOP!” I shout, slapping my hands over my ears. “Just, stop!”
I abandon the kitchen entirely, coffee forgotten on the counter as I practically sprint up the stairs.
Her voice follows me like a war cry. “I’m just saying! Don’t go in there looking like-”
“Shut up!” I shriek, tripping over my own feet as I escape into the hallway.
I slam my bedroom door, chest heaving, face burning.
Sex advice from my little sister is not something I need.
Not now.
Not ever.
