This is what family looks like, I realize. Not the quiet, sterile dinners of my childhood, where conversation was polite and measured. This is noise and mess and people who want to be around each other, and enjoy each others company.
And in the middle of all the chaos, looking profoundly uncomfortable, is Isabel.
She’s been cornered by Mercy near the refrigerator, clearly being subjected to some kind of interrogation disguised as friendly conversation. Her answers are monosyllabic, her body language screamingget me out of here, but Mercy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“—and then I told Cash, if you think I’m cleaning up after that dog one more time, you’ve got another thing coming—oh, Josie!” Mercy spots me in the doorway and her face lights up. “You’re awake! How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Sit down, sit down, you shouldn’t be standing?—”
“I’m fine?—”
“You’re not fine, you’re concussed. Ginger, she’s concussed and she’s standing.”
“I can see that.” Ginger abandons her post at the stove and descends on me like a sequined tornado.
She’s a fiery redhead with freckles and curves. The kind of redhead who probably terrorized her teachers and charmed her way out of every detention. Silver threads liberally through her wild hair but she isn’t about to apologize for it by dying them. Her lipstick is the same shade as a fire engine, and her hoop earrings are long enough they could pick up radio signals. Today she’s wearing a leopard print blouse, skinny jeans, sparkles, from the glitter on her eyeshadow to the rhinestones on her belt.
She’s loud, proud, and outrageously kind.
“Honey, what are you doing up? You should be in bed. Maggie, tell her she should be in bed.”
“She should be in bed,” Maggie says without looking up from her vegetables.
“I’ve been in bed for—” I try to do the math and give up. “Too long. I needed to move.”
“Moving is overrated. Sitting is recommended by five out of six doctors.” Ginger steers me toward the table with surprising strength for someone her size. “Park it. I’ll bring you coffee and breakfast and you’ll sit there and let us fuss over you.”
“I don’t need fussing?—”
“Everyone needs fussing. Especially stubborn lawyers who get hit by cars and then try to pretend they’re fine.” She pushes me into a chair with a firm hand. “Sit. Stay. Good girl.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You’re right. Dogs are better at following instructions.”
Emma snorts. Rose gurgles in what might be agreement.
I give up and sit.
Breakfast is an event.
Plates appear in front of me—bacon, eggs, toast, fruit, pancakes. More food than I can eat in a week, let alone a single morning. Coffee materializes at my elbow, hot and strong, and I wrap my good hand around the mug like it’s a lifeline.
The women talk around me and over me and through me, a constant stream of chatter that’s oddly comforting. They aren’t treating me like an invalid or a victim. They’re treating me like family.
It’s been a long time since anyone has treated me like family. It’s strange, being surrounded by people who care whether I’ve eaten, whether I’ve slept, whether I’m hurting. I’ve spent so long taking care of myself that I’d forgotten what it feels like. Being looked after. Beingwanted.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to look down at the scarred wooden table until the feeling passes.
“So,” Kya says, sliding into the seat beside me. “How’s it feel to be a damsel in distress?”
“Terrible. I’m filing a complaint.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know yet. Whoever’s in charge of clichés.”
She grins. “That’s the spirit. Eat your eggs.”
I eat my eggs.
