“There you go,” she said, removing her legs and allowing me to slide into place beside her. Emma placed her arm through mine and used the other to check my forehead temperature with the back of her hand. “Uh-oh, Quinn. You look like a crusty little animal.”
“Thanks… I guess.”
“Seriously,” she said, eyeing me. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. “Nothing a round of vomiting won’t fix.”
“Well, I don’t think I need to remind you to keep your chunks well away from me or you’ll be joining Keith in the dead man’s pile.”
“I’m well aware of your rules, Emma. Some nights before I go to bed, I still unconsciously recite them in my head.”
“As you should.” She grinned before switching gears on me. “That was quite a show you put on last night.”
“Did you like it?” I asked, adding fake excitement for her benefit. “What was your absolute favorite part?”
“My favorite, you ask?” Emma matched my enthusiasm. “Wow, Quinn, I’d be hard-pressed to choose just one thing.”
“In that case, let’s not talk about any of them. How about that?”
“I suppose. For now.” She nodded. “But only because I don’t want to risk pissing you off after not seeing you in what seems like forever. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. Have you heard from Grace lately?”
“We text all the time. She’s in love.”
My head shot up. “No, she’s not.”
Emma cocked her head, blinking at me in surprise. “Yes, she is.”
“I think I’d know if my baby sister was in love. She tells me everything.”
“Oh, really? Ever heard of a guy named Elliott?”
I blinked. “No.”
“Then she doesn’t tell you everything.”
My mouth dropped open. “That sneaky little… why wouldn’t she tell me that?”
“Probably because you’re a one-man wrecking crew when it comes to her boyfriends. She doesn’t want you to ruin it for her.”
I resented the accusation that I was out for boyfriend blood. “Like I would do that. I don’t even know this guy.”
“One word, Quinn—Rory.”
Rory? No way was I going to apologize for that. Rory had dug his own grave. I’d just covered it over with dirt. As far as I was concerned, I’d done Grace a favor with that one.
“Just keep your grubby hands away from Elliott. She really likes him.”
“Please. I’m an angel.”
She laughed. “A fallen one, maybe.”
The conversation with Emma halted the minute my father entered the room with a ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ party hat on his head, a plate of food in one hand, and a brightly colored drink sporting an umbrella in the other. Heading straight for his favorite armchair, he lined himself up and prepared for touchdown. It was a disaster waiting to happen, and everyone knew it… except for, apparently, the man himself. With no hands to guide his entry, Dad was going in butt first and blind. Even if he stuck the landing, there was no guarantee he’d escape the backsplash that would surely launch from his drink when gravity deposited him deep into the old recliner’s manmade sinkhole.
Dad claimed to love this chair; he even had a list somewhere that highlighted its selling points. Things like superior squish factor, foam that ‘remembered’ the shape of his ass, and the recliner’s otherworldly ability to smother the smell of his farts all ranked high on the list. But we all knew it was a lie. My father was no martyr. Like any other middle-aged man in America, he’d prefer a brand-new state-of-the-art remote-controlled recliner with advanced massage settings, a built-in power station, and the ability to cure cancer. Yet the man stuck to his fourteen-year-old chair for one incredibly selfish reason—he didn’t want to share.
See, as of now, no one wanted to sit in his chair for the exact reasons he’d outlined as bonuses on his list. But where his chair was situated in the room was also the most coveted spot: the perfect angle and length from the big screen TV. A new chair meant fierce competition, which my father’s dad bod could not withstand.
