“Tell me about your sisters,” he says after a moment.
I smile automatically.
“April’s the oldest,” I say. “She’s only two years older than me, but she’s wiser than I’ll ever be. Don’t tell her I said that, though, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He grins, listening.
“She’s always taken care of us,” I continue, watching the jam as I talk. “Even when we were little. Walking us to school, keeping an eye out for us, standing up for us when we needed it.” I shake my head softly. “When my mom got diagnosed with cancer, she dropped everything. Took her to every appointment, every treatment. She was… the light Mom needed.”
My throat tightens a little, but it feels easier to talk about it now.
“June and I were still in school,” I add. “The only reason I was able to keep going to school is that I knew Mom was okay with April there.”
He nods, paying full attention.
“She lives in Los Angeles now,” I say. “She’s a photographer forVerve.”
“The magazine?” he asks.
I can’t help smiling wider. “Yeah. She does their main shoots.”
“That’s really cool.”
He moves closer, checking the jam. He dips a cool spoon into it, then lifts it out. The syrup slides slowly, leaving only a thin coating.
“It’s perfect,” he says, looking at me.
His gaze lingers a second longer than it should. I look away first, suddenly aware of how little space there is between us.
“I’m gonna grab mason jars from the garage.”
He’s back a minute later, carrying a crate full of clean jars, setting it on the counter between us.
“How about June?” he asks. “Tell me about her.”
He starts filling the jars, steady and careful, and I watch his hands work.
“June…” I think for a moment. “She’s mature beyond her years.” I laugh. “Also, don’t tell her I said that, or I’ll never hear the end of it either.”
He makes a quick lips-sealed gesture, making me smile.
“Always knows what to say,” I go on. “She’s the kind of friend I wish I were sometimes—thoughtful, caring, always available even when she’s busy.”
“What does she do?”
“She works for the Great Lakes Strikers as part of the social media team.”
“The soccer team?” he asks, surprised.
“Yeah. Are you a soccer fan?”
“Oh yeah.” He nods toward the stairs. “Uncle Mike and I are big fans.”
“Well,” I say, “if you follow them online, you’ve probably seen June. She’s usually the one convincing players to do ridiculous videos.”
He laughs. “I’m sure I have.”
I smile at the image of him younger, watching games with Uncle Mike, probably yelling at the TV.
