Stepping into the open living area of my bungalow, greenery welcomes me from all sides. Climbers, hanging plants, tabletop, floor, and shelf plants on every surface are what make this place feel like home for me.
This quaint, two-bedroom bungalow I bought at auction has really become my own in the past couple of years. My sister fought to take down the bank that used to own this and so many other properties in town, their monopoly on the local real estate being what kept so many of us from being able to afford our own homes and businesses. Rory helped me pick this one out and win it for a hell of a deal, and while my place isn’t huge, or new, it’s mine and I love it.
Flitting through the kitchen, I make my way to the small dining room that’s been repurposed as a conservatory to check on all my babies. They say for millennials, pets are the new kids and plants are the new pets, and I guess I’m proving them right.
My monstera, fiddle leaf, golden pothos, spider plant, peperomia, calathea, bird’s nest, and tiger tooth all get the weekly treatment they’re due for. I dip a knuckle into the others,stroking their leaves, ensuring that none of them are going thirsty, or feel under the weather. My rubber plant, string of pearls, ZZ, and all but one of my succulents are still happy and moist from their last feedings.
I saw some study on social media once that talking to your plants is good for them, and now it’s a habit I can’t break. As I make my rounds I fill them in on the latest with the diner, explaining to them why I’ve had so much less time at home this past month, and that it’s not about to get any better once Heights Bites opens.
The gilded mister makes me feel like I’m in my own private greenhouse when I use it to shower my more spoiled plants with a bit of extra love, leaving them dewy and glistening, and when the whole routine is through, I treat myself to a crispy Diet Coke from the fridge, and I’m off.
A cross-body bag Rory picked out for me on her last trip in New York—a much more welcome gift from the city than my new chef—is the final touch, and me and my Nissan make the twelve-minute trek to my sister’s place.
The three pickups all side by side tell me exactly who’s here. A navy Dodge Ram, Wyatt (though this is his house, not really a surprise), cherry red F-150, Weston (and since she’s never far away these days, Amelia too), and white Toyota Tacoma, Gracie and Ronnie.
A crooked grin pops one side of my mouth up at the site of my bestie’s ride. Gracie and Ronnie—okay,especiallyRonnie—are always a great time. Plus, I’ve hardly seen my niece and nephews since I signed the grant paperwork on the diner, and they need their fill of Auntie Lexi.
Let’s get this party started.
Their home is cozy, but modern. Stone house with thick black metal framing around the windows, which take up essentially the entire outside of the structure, and rustic wooden beamsabove the entrance. Even though I’ve been here dozens upon dozens of times, it still pinches my chest if I let myself think about the history of this place too long, so I don’t.
The wide glass front door is open and I let myself right in, heading for where my sister is flurrying around in the compact kitchen. She looks up, sleek hair shifting with her movements, and her lips hitch up the tiniest bit at the sight of me.
“I should’ve told you it started at ten. Did you bring the strawberries?”
I can feel my nose scrunch up at the question. “Strawberries? I thought I was bringing melons.”
My sister rolls her eyes. “Ew, why would I put melon in a fruit salad? It was strawberries, Lex.” She lets out a heavy breath and holds out her hands. “Somehow I had a feeling this would happen and I got extra strawberries. So, fine. Give me the melons.”
Arms bent so my hands are right by my shoulders, elbows squeezing the girls together, I stick out my tongue and shimmy my rack at my baby sister. “I got your melons right here.”
Rory’s jaw drops—which I consider an accomplishment—before she slams it shut, teeth clacking.
“Never, Alexis, and I meanneverdo that in my line of sight again.” That hint of a smile islonggone.
“I thought water was thicker than blood!” I shout at her back as she storms away, hands to her temples, sundress swaying with each graceful step she takes.
“Right now it might be!” she hollers back at me.
Rolling my eyes—she makes no sense—I pass through the cottage and let myself out the side door, heading straight into the backyard where the people who know how to have fun are.
“Lex!” comes the voice of my best friend since high school, Gracie.
“Alexis!” That’s her husband, Ronnie, somehow best friends with Wyatt despite being polar opposites.
The three Kovar children race around Ronnie and Wyatt’s knees, giggling as they go.
After what might as well be the sound of a plunger un-sticking, Weston’s and Amelia’s voices join in.
“About time.”
“Lexiiii!”
“Big Momma,” I say to the girl on Weston’s lap, unable to help the grin she pulls out of me every time I see her.
The most petite one of us, Amelia is in tiny athletic shorts, a concert tee that’s been cut, cropped to just below her chest, making me jealous of that taut stomach of hers, and she’s paired it all with black combat boots.
For such a small person, she packs a lot of punch. That’s how she got her nickname from me.
