“Just be careful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t want to see you hurt again,” she says in her most motherly of voices.
It takes effort not to sigh in response to her overprotectiveness. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“Didn’t I just tell you it’s my job to worry?”
“Millie’s different.”
Isn’t she?
Though she’s thirty minutes late, Millie arrives with an overflowing bag of candy. “I didn’t know what you two like.”She kicks off her shoes with gusto and hangs her purse by the door.
Kane holds the bag hostage, immediately ripping into the Sour Patch Kids and Swedish Fish. With a “Thanks, Mills” tossed over his shoulder, he settles back into his corner of the sofa.
“Mills, huh?” She hands me a bag of dark chocolate M&M’s—good guess.
“You two have really hit it off.”
She nods in response to my comment, but her eyes swim with an emotion I can’t read. Before I can give it any more thought, she’s pouring herself a glass of wine and telling me all about Cam and Joey’s latest travels to London. I listen intently while I pop popcorn, pretending it’s new and exciting information, even though I just got off the phone with Cam.
“What are we watching?” she asks as she pulls a pair of fuzzy socks from her purse.
Once she settles next to Kane, I set the large bowl of popcorn on the table in front of us and take a seat on her other side.
Her feet have crept their way into my lap before Ferris Bueller has even said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
At one point, Millie and Kane get into a debate about which Sour Patch Kid flavor is the best, so I pause the movie and bask in the moment. Damn, life really is great.
Unsurprisingly, my brother passes out before the credits roll. While Millie collects candy wrappers, I pull his long legs onto the sofa and cover him with a blanket. As I back away, an image of scooping up a younger version of Kane flashes through my mind: blond hair like his, curly like mine, and green eyes like Millie’s.
“I guess I’ll head out.”
“Stay.” I mean for it to be a demand, but it comes out more like a plea.
She lowers her focus to a spot on my shirt. “But I don’t have any of my things.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t wear pajamas. And I have an extra toothbrush. What more do you need?”
When she doesn’t have a comeback, I drag her by the hand into my bedroom and set a new toothbrush on the counter by the sink. We brush side by side, then she watches me in the mirror as I peel off my clothes.
In the bedroom she removes her shirt, revealing a pale blue bra. The dusty pink of her nipples peeks through the lace. “Why do you have sheets on top of your sheets? And are these waterproof?” she asks, poking the heap of linens on my mattress.
“Dammit. I changed and washed them but forgot to put them away. And of course they’re waterproof.” I wink. I fluff out the fitted sheet, then haphazardly fold it, though it looks more like a soft rock by the time I’m done with it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she gasps. “What are you doing?” Her expression is much like the one I give my students when they use the newest slang: confused and repulsed.
“Think you can fold a fitted sheet better than this? I’d like to see you try.” I throw the bunched-up fabric at her.
She meticulously yet effortlessly folds it, giving Martha Stewart a run for her money.
Strangely, my heart rate kicks up at the sight of her. Am I in love?
She looks up. “What?”
“I don’t know anyone else who can fold a fitted sheet.”
