“You took long enough,” I mumble into his collar.
“That whole working-for-a-living thing really cramps my style.”
“Same. Next time around, let’s still be siblings, but let’s be wealthy brats who travel because we’re bored.”
“Next time around, Lolo. Definitely.”
He pulls back to look at me. “You look… different.” He tilts his head to study me. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about you…” he trails off, looking over my head. “Hey, Mom.”
My brother turns me in his arms, leaving one over my shoulder,and walks with me at his side to Mom before wrapping her in his free arm and kissing her cheek. “What can I do?”
“Absolutely nothing.” She swats the air in the way that saysdon’t be ridiculousand meanders back the way she came.
“Dad’s making the burgers and brats. Billy’s helping.” It comes out more like a question than I meant for it to.
“As much as he can with all the control freaks around here.” Sam stands in the hallway, leaning on the wall. “Hey, big brother.”
Strider opens his arm and she folds in on his other side. “Got my best girls right here.”
Mom clears her throat from the other side of the wall to the kitchen.
“Almostall of my best girls,” he corrects.
We walk into the kitchen to see Mom staring out the window at Billy gesticulating wildly and Dad with a beer bottle to his lips tipped in an effort to drain it.
“Oh shit,” Sam says and walks out the slider to the deck.
Oh shitis right.
“What did I miss?” Strider whispers conspiratorially.
“Well,” Mom speaks directly to the windows, never looking away. “I can’t be sure, but I think Billy was instructing your dad on grilling the brats.”
“Billy from Florida?” I ask like there are multiple Billy’s. “Grouper, I get. Shrimp or oysters, okay. But brats?”
“Not helping,” Mom puts in.
Sam walks to Billy, wraps an arm around his waist and pats his stomach.
Dad sets his beer down with more force than tempered glass should withstand and zeroes his eyes to Sam’s hand.
“He’s not what I pictured,” Strider starts. “Though I don’t know what I pictured. This weekend should be interesting.”
“Your dad is struggling. Let’s do what we can to help, okay?” Mom throws the tea towel over the shoulder closest to us and turns our way. “You two are a picture.”
I beam. Strider pulls me closer with the arm around my shoulder, and I relax into my favorite person in the world.
And he is my favorite.
So why does my mind drift to the grumpy guy next door? Well, he’s not really next door anymore, is he? He’s in my life, in my house, in my bed. I stop before my mind can thinkin mebecause no doubt the blush that would flame my face would warm the whole kitchen.
It’s July in Illinois, and there’s tension outside. No one needs anything more incendiary.
We survive dinner.
We survive dessert.
Tomorrow is Strider’s birthday and we’ll do this again only at his place. Steaks, twice-baked potatoes, broccolini, and a huge salad, along with birthday cake and ice cream, like he’s turning four instead of forty.
