The hot air felt good at first, warming me up after getting trapped in a sudden spring rainstorm, but after five minutes, it’s not feeling as good anymore, especially not on the cut from my interview with Chef Matthews two days ago. But I persevere, because the only thing worse than a soaking wet shirt is wearing one to brunch with your family.
The universe must really have it out for me this week. As if Friday’s interview from hell wasn’t bad enough, now I’m trapped in the cafe bathroom in a ridiculously expensive souvenir T-shirt three sizes two big as I dry my laundry day bra under hand dryers and pray no one strolls in until I’m done.
The dryer turns off and I whack the button again, the loud hum of the machine filling the black and white tiled bathroom. This feels like a daunting sign that maybe I should’ve just called in sick to today’s Sunday sibling brunch, but alas, here we are.
The black door swings open and I freeze, only slightly relaxing when I find my younger sister standing there, herhand still braced on the half-open door as she stares at me with wide eyes and furrowed brows.
“Jane, what are you doing?” Lydia looks at my hands, still paused under the hand dryer, my decrepit beige bra still damp and dangling from my fingers.
“Trying to dry my bra so I don’t have to free-boob it at sibling brunch and give Charlie a coronary,” I say, aiming for casual but my voice comes out a little too high-pitched to sound natural.
Lydia grins, the lines around her eyes crinkling and strolls into the bathroom, planting herself in front of the mirror. The dryer ends again, and though the bra is nowhere near dry, I don’t think my hands—or the bra—can handle another round of air ventilation. Wincing against the damp fabric, I wrap the bra around my stomach, clip it, and shimmy it up to my chest under the massive T-shirt I just bought to replace the rain soaked shirt I initially wore here.
Lydia pulls out a tube of lipstick and puckers in the mirror. “I can’t believe you seriously bought a Sunshine Cafe T-shirt. That must’ve run you, what, thirty bucks?”
“Forty-five,” I mutter.
She grimaces. “Oof.”
“You’re telling me.”
I lead the way back out of the bathroom because staying in one place would only be giving Lydia permission to make more comments about my clothes. Luckily, Lydia drops it as we follow the hostess to a reserved table in the back corner of the restaurant, which is notably empty despite me showing up five minutes late. My siblings wouldn’t know time management if it whacked them upside the head. Maybe I did have time to dry my shorts after all.
The order of arrivals at these brunches had become so predictable it almost makes me laugh. First, is usually me—Jane,the responsible one. I’d never been to an event that I didn’t show up at least ten minutes early too (a fact I was way too aware of after the incident with Chef Matthews). Next up is Lydia–my younger sister who was flighty at best but had a big heart, and was always just a smidge late to every event. Usually about ten minutes after us is when Charlie and Elise show up. My brother and his wife had been married for six years but still act like they’re teenagers in puppy love. And finally, a minimum of twenty minutes late, is Kate.
If the title Drama Queen could only belong to one person in the world, the crown would be Kate’s. Our youngest sister is practically an It Girl—the one who sets the trends, the one everyone else wants to be friends with, the one we all aspire to be.
I love her to death, but growing up as her sister hasn’t exactly been easy.
My shoes make an embarrassing squelching sound as I slide into my chair and I steadfastly avoid the hostess’s gaze, hoping she doesn’t notice. She drops a pile of menus onto the table and returns to her post without a word.
The bell dings over the door and I turn in my bright orange cushioned chair, finding my brother and his wife walking in the restaurant. Ten minutes late, like clockwork.
“Hey,” Charlie greets me and Lydia as he and Elise approach the table, the wide smile sliding from his face as he looks away from his wife to acknowledge us. “Sorry we’re late. We were just?—”
“Busy making googly eyes at each other?” Lydia teases.
“Caught in the rainstorm,” Elise says.
“Because you were frozen on the sidewalk making googly eyes at each other?” I ask. They both ignore me as Charlie pulls out the chair and offers Elise a hand to sit. Elise beams at Charlie with such a look of adoration that I find myself draggingmy gaze away to give them some privacy while Lydia mimics gagging besides me.
“Hey, Sinclairs,” our waitress says as she deposits our usuals on the table without her needing to ask what we wanted—two mimosas for me and Lydia, and a caramel latte for me. I breathe in the smell of the sweet caramel and sigh.
“Thanks, Allie.”
“No problem. Coffee for you today, Lydia?”
“No, I’ll start here,” Lydia says, raising her mimosa to Allie in a salute before taking a sip.
She nods turns to Charlie and Elise for their orders before she walks off, doing her rounds as we wait for Kate and Jason.
“I love her,” I mutter as I grab my latte and take a gulp. It’s still a little too hot, so my throat burns as it makes its way down, but I still relish in the double espresso.
I set the mug down, then prop my elbow on the tabletop, resting my chin in my hand as I wistfully watch Charlie brush a strand of Elise’s dark hair out of her face. I’ve always hoped to find a love like theirs eventually, something as natural and real and beautiful as they have, even if some of the days I’m around them I can’t stop the sisterly instinct of telling them to get a room and pretending to be disgusted.
My phone chimes with a text and I look down at it to break myself out of the stare.
Lola: Are we taking our usual bets on what Kate’s drama will be today or are we skipping this time?
