Piper Grimsay
I don’t remember the part about naked men in the kitchen!
Me
Doesn’t RJ ever walk around naked in your house?
Piper Grimsay
Yeah but we’re practically living together. We’re in a serious relationship
I sigh at the text and try to think of the best way to tell my sister she’s starting to sound like an ignorant bitch without upsetting her.
Ah, fuck it. Diplomacy’s never been my strong point.
Me
You’re starting to sound like an ignorant bitch
Piper Grimsay
WHAT?
Me
They love each other. It’s serious. Deacon’s here to stay so get the fuck on board. If you don’t want to walk in on him naked then just fucking knock
Piper Grimsay
Ouch
Me
Sorry
Piper Grimsay
No, you’re right, I’m overreacting. If Dad’s happy, I’m happy
Me
Well it sounds as though Dad’s very, very, VERY happy
Piper Grimsay
I seriously hate you
I let out a breath of wry laughter and put my phone back in my pocket. I know it’s going to take a lot more than some tough love from me for Piper to get herself adjusted to Dad’s new situation, but I also know her reservations aren’t actually due to ignorance, regardless of how she might come across. This is all very new and unexpected, and after what Dad went through with Natalia it’s understandable that she might be a little wary.
“How’s it going, beautiful?” I ask Izzy, who’s currently having a blast finger-painting at my kitchen table.
She glances up and grins at me through her adorable rainbow-framed glasses. “See my picture.”
I stride toward her so I can peer over her shoulder, taking in her masterpiece. Finger-painting has been one of her favorite things to do ever since she tried it out at kindergarten a few months ago, and she’s actually pretty good at it. I mean, I can’t really tell what exactly she’s trying to paint—there’s a yellow thing that looks like it might be a sun, and a gray smudge with a line sticking out of it that I think might be Piper’s dog, Rufus—but she’s a hell of a lot more careful with her color selection and application than I ever was at her age. Pretty sure my biggest goal when finger-painting was to smear as many colors together as possible.
“Wow, that looks great, Iz,” I gush. “What are you going to do next?”
“Tree,” she says matter-of-factly, carefully dipping her yellow-tipped fingers in the water bowl next to her and drying them on a towel before reaching for the green paint.
