She scanned my face, reading me as only an older sister can. “Ri-ight.”
“I like Ani a lot, but I’m not getting involved a relationship. Especially one where a baby is concerned.”
She searched my face. “Just to be clear, you’re going to lovemysmall child, right?”
“That’s different. Don’t even ask that.”
“I’m sure taking the step to love anyone again is scary. But a baby is just…a sweet innocent baby.” She poked me in the chest, proving that siblings never lose their annoyance quotient. “I fully expect you to go full-blown uncle mode on me. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
“I promise to be the best uncle ever.” And I would, because I’d do anything for my sister. “There’s nothing going on between us. Okay?”
“Okay, okay.” She eyed me with the wisdom of someone who knew me inside and out. “You have a savior complex. You can’t resist helping anyone you love. That’s the story I’m personally going with.”
I ignored that because she was my sister, and I could. I closed the truck door and led us to the house. I wish I could describe the look on Ani’s face when she saw my very pregnant sister standing there in jeans and a flannel shirt, her long hair up in a bun-thingy, looking like a pregnant version of Joanna Gaines.
“Ani, this is?—”
My sister barged forward and held out her hand. “Anita. I’m his big sister, I’m eight months pregnant, and I have dinner.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ani said, a giant smile on her face as she opened the door. “Let’s eat.”
My sister walked right in and started scoping out the place. That was the thing I loved about Anita—she didn’t care who liked her, but nearly everyone did. “Did he tell you? I’m a house stager. I think I can get some furniture in here for you ASAP.”
“ASAP as in, today?” Ani asked.
“If I can eat first, it’s possible. And if we find some strapping guys to haul some couches.” Anita did pack away two pieces of lasagna—“One for me, one for the baby,” she’d said, but then she got right to work, walking around, taking photos, measuring things.
“Is your vibe ‘Grandma of the 90s’ or ‘mid-century chic?’” she asked Ani. “I think I can handle a complete furniture set with either of those vibes.”
“Hmmm,” Ani answered thoughtfully. “What’s Grandma of the 90s?”
“Checks, ducks, ruffles, mauve, that kind of thing.”
“Aw, that’s just like Grandma’s house,” Ani said to her mom.
“Ani likes traditional with a twist,” Julia said. “Cottagey. No mauve. And definitely no ducks.” She paused. “Did I get that right?”
Ani seemed surprised her mom had asked. “I loved Gram’s house,” Ani said to her mother with a sigh. “But okay. No ducks.” But then she asked her mom, “Whatever happened to those duck cookie jars Grandma had?”
“If I know their whereabouts, I will never tell,” her mother said.
“How do you feel about mid-century?” Anita asked.
“I hate that orange and purple stuff,” I said before I realized that my opinion didn’t count. After all, I wasn’t going to be living here. I mean, that would be ridiculous, right?
“Ignore him,” Anita said. “His aesthetic is dull gray. Inside and out.” Then she shot me an evil grin.
I caught Ani’s expression. Her eyes were smiling, if that makes sense. She was amused. Entertained. She liked my sister, I could tell. Most importantly, she was not currently stressing out. And that somehow made me very happy, savior complex or not.
“Okay, chicky, my job is done here. I’ll do my best.” Anita set down her clipboard. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Ani said, but she was still looking at me. And her eyes were still doing that smiley thing that was doing something to me besides making me feel relieved. I felt this pull, this feeling like I could somehow read her mood, her emotions—and it was making me want to send everyone away and do a long, slow repeat of that last night in Turks and Caicos.
“I’m taking your truck,” my bratty sister said to me. “Send the strapping guys to my warehouse as soon as you round them up.”
I gave her a salute. Then I went to round up some friends with muscles.
Ani
