“You do?”
He nods. I can’t tell whether he’s bluffing or not.
“Well,” Mom says, “Coco, let the boys and Brittany go shoot. While they’re doing that, can you please help me in the kitchen?”
“Um—”
“Great. And did you put the pickles in the potato salad?”
Crap. With everything that’s happened this week, the pickles slipped my mind.
My shoulders slump. “No, I forgot.”
Her face says it’s not okay. “That’s fine. I have some we can add. Brittany got them this morning from the store.”
“Yep,” my sister says, stretching out her arms, “I was afraid you’d forget like last time.”
And let the emotional digs begin. “Good thing you saved the day.”
“Yeah, and we’re gonna have some fun later. We’re gonna play Hide from Brittany.”
“Fantastic,” I say without enthusiasm.
This is classic Brittany. She hunts us like a sixth grader, filming for her YouTube channel the whole time. But you can’t say anything negative about it because she makes a ton of money, and my parents think it’s great she’s teaching survival techniques to a new generation, even if she’s doing it in pink camo.
“I’ll help in the kitchen,” I confirm to my mom.
Stone frowns as if he doesn’t approve. I itch to tell him I’m more than a girl who forgets pickles and is only useful to her family when it comes to making potato salad, but I don’t.
The moment slips away.
Stone leans over and whispers in my ear, “Do I smell corn bread?”
“Yeah. It’s probably baking in the kitchen.”
He pulls back and winks. “Save me a slice.”
My insides melt as my dad claps him on the shoulder. “You ever been to a pig roast where they cook the hog underground?”
Confusion scrolls over Stone’s face for a moment before one side of his mouth tips up. “Can’t say I have.”
“Come on, let me introduce you to everyone. Would you like a water? You can have beer after we shoot.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
With that, my dad, sister, and Stone walk off to do manly survivalist things like shoot guns while I get stuffed in the kitchen slicing pickles for potato salad.
We go inside and the kitchen smells amazing: Beans bake in the oven and cabbage simmers on the stovetop, with corn bread cooling beside it.
“Mom, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“It wasn’t just me—it was your aunts, too.”
And as if on cue, the side door opens and in storms a handful of aunts. They see me and exclaim in happiness, charging over to pull me into hugs, see if I’ve lost/gained weight. Do I have any wrinkles? Not yet, but I need to be careful. Aunt Susan knows a face cream that will keep my twentysomething skin looking young and full of collagen. Aunt Whitney says if that doesn’t work, she knows a great plastic surgeon.
They are a gaggle of fun and laughter, charging in and taking over everything, pouring canned margaritas into glasses, fussing over the salad, laughing at each other’s jokes.
They’re a mixed bag—a couple are my dad’s sisters, a couple married in. They’re alloverprepping, but they love get-togethers.
