“I mean, mostly. Almost everything!”
“Right. Almost,” she says. "As I recall, I told you every last embarrassing thing I went through with Jonesy and Snake-Hips Santa, including?—"
Her cheeks turn pink, and it fries the majority of my anger. Since we met in college over ten years ago and became sister soulmates, Liv’s been the well-behaved one to my loose cannon. Surprise was an understatement when she confessed that she let the Santa Claus stripper get her off in the VIP room of Crimson Lounge last December, only to discover that the dancer with the talented fingers was also the hot waiter she was obsessed with. Her grand love story made my entire dating history seem tame.
“Anyway,” she says, pressing the backs of her hands to her flushed face, “I’ve been an open book, but you clam up every time someone says Wyatt's name. In fact, the last time I brought him up, you shoved your fingers in your ears and started singing Taylor Swift at the top of your lungs until I stopped."
“Which should be a sign that I want nothing to do with him.” I flounce back to the tray I’m building. “So what makes you th?—”
“The geese are loose!”
Drea’s shout rings through the kitchen, and all activity grinds to a halt. I haven’t known the girl long, but I’m guessing this is the most excited she’s been in her whole life; the grumpy cat expression she and her big brother have in common is nowhere in sight.
“You guys, Wyatt’s chasing them! Come on!”
Liv and I exchange a glance, then scramble out of the kitchen after her, all three of us skidding to a stop behind an open-mouthed Becks.
The ballroom’s in shambles as all six geese a-laying waddle their way through the horrified crowd, honking and hissing at the humans in pursuit.
“What happened?” I ask in awe.
Becks doesn’t turn away from the chaos as one of the servers launches himself at a goose that’s paused to nudge a dropped napkin while the guests at the nearby tables scream in terror and scrambles to stand on her chair.
The goose darts away, and the server hits the floor with an oof.
“One of the ballerinas pirouetted into the holding pen and”—Becks mimics an explosion—“geese. Everywhere.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Drea whispers, and all I can do is nod. Then my mind blanks because there’s Wyatt.
His jacket’s off, and he’s brandishing it like a matador in an attempt to direct one of the birds toward its frazzled handler. He’s apparently some kind of poultry whisperer because the capture effort is successful, leaving the room with one less loose goose.
When he pauses to push his hair off his forehead, he notices the four of us gawking and winks. “Don’t worry, ladies. No geese will be harmed.”
Liv and his sisters applaud while everything south of my navel starts to glow like lit coals. His white shirt clings to his shoulders and arms, his goddamn sleeves are rolled up, and I’m hit with the inconvenient reminder of how easily he carried me over the 5K finish line two years ago like I weighed nothing, which I absolutely do not.
Dammit. Nobody should be having these kinds of thoughts about their enemy while he’s sprinting after geese with his forearms on display like a Victorian woman flashing ankle.
“He looks so much better than last summer.”
I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but on the heels of the memory of Wyatt running with me like a bona fide superhero is the memory of the alley last year when I was startled by his weight loss.
Becks hears me and nods. “Doesn’t he? It was scary there for a while. Mom looked better and better, but Wyatt just kept getting worse.”
Drea wraps an arm around her sister’s waist. “He fought through it,” she says.
“He always does.” Becks rests her head on Drea’s shoulder as they watch their brother capture another goose and Darby hustles the now-sobbing kiddie ballerinas out of the ballroom.
“So he’s… better… now?” I ask hesitantly.
“Oh, yeah,” Drea confirms. “Back to being Wyatt.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Howard’s amplified voice pierces the hubbub. “Your patience, please! The situation’s in hand, and we’ll be back to normal in a jif.”
“A jif?” Drea asks.
“Who gave Howard a microphone?” I ask.
Liv stands on her toes to peer over the crowd. “Looks like he bullied it out of the event coordinator.”
