Tiffany gasps. “You wouldn’t!”
“I would.” I turn to Fran, ready to spill a not-so-embarrassing story that my sister has hated for the last seven years of her life. The day she was tricked into kissing Shane Willey on the playground. “When Tiffany was in first grade?—”
“Shush!” Tiff barks, covering my mouth with her hand.
I push down my sister’s fist and open the door to the place I will always call home.
“You can leave your things in the entry,” Tiff says to Fran, though I am the one literally carrying all of our stuff.
“Thanks, squirt, I’ll take them up.”
Fran peers at the low-hanging hooks in our entry and giggles to herself. “Cute.”
“Is Fran in Kailey’s room?”
“Umm, no,” Tiffany says. “Kailey is in Kailey’s room.”
“But I thought she’d come for the party and then go back to Montalvo.”
Tiff grins at me. “You thought wrong. She wants to stay here as long as you’rehere.”
“And Asher?—”
“Asher’s in his room. Mom has Fran in with you.”
“Fran isn’t staying in my room with me, though. It’s…” I peer from my sister to Fran. “Not like that.” I don’t mention to the fourteen-year-old that I have issues, Franny Fairchild issues, and every time I’m alone with the woman, I end up with my mouth molded to hers, ready to give her whatever she asks for. “I can sleep on?—”
“We can stay in Cal’s room,” Fran says, while I choke, “We can?”
“Yes,” she says. “We’re all grown up, Callum Whitaker. We’ll be just fine.”
“This is about a movie—isn’t it?”
“No,” she says, but I don’t believe that high-pitched tone for a second. “Well, maybe, but that doesn’t matter.” Fran looks at Tiff. “We’ll be fine.”
Tiff giggles. “Problem solved! You know Mom doesn’t like you sleeping on her couch anyway. You get all your boy sweat soaked into her pretty fabrics.”
I sigh. “I’m just going to take these up.”
“Good. Mom is in the kitchen. I’ll just take Fran to?—”
“Nope!” I spout. “Fran comes with me.” I snatch her by the hand, abandoning my bag altogether, and tug her up the stairs after me.
Fran chuckles. “I’m not allowed to meet your mom?”
“I didn’t say that. I just want to make the introduction.” It’s mostly true. What I don’t say is that I don’t trust my little sister with Fran—not for a second.
Fran pauses, tugging me back, and peers at the pictures trailing up the wide stairway, me and my siblings through the entirety of our lives.
“Is this you?” she says, pointing to a picture of me at five. I’m standing at the goal of a small soccer net—sobbing.
“That’s me. That was my first and last attempt at goalie. It’s not for the faint of heart.”
“And you’re faint of heart?” she asks, grinning at that photo my mother refuses to take down.
“I was back then.” I never understood why Mom framed and hung that particular photo, but Fran seems to be enjoying it.
“Tiff could always camp out in my room. You could take hers.”
