In the past four years, the Windy City had become home too.
“Did someone say money?” A voice chirped from the back row and up popped my sister’s head.
“Olive, you’re such a bill collector, my God.”
“Hello to you too, sister. I also have missed you so much.” Olive rolled her eyes, and I wet my finger to give her a wet willy, but she was too fast and leaned back to her seat.
“Nolly, you’re too old to be giving wet willies.”
“Olly, you’re too young to be in grown folks’ business.”
“Only child syndrome.” My sister shrugged.
“Not a thing for you, next.”
“I’m practically beingraisedas an only child considering our mother decided to wait thirteen years.”
“Oh you asshole…” Clay mumbled. “Ahem, yes, children are a blessing indeed.”
Olive nodded her head. “I am God’s gift to this family.”
“And I was the first.” I corrected.
“But they tried again, so obviously they wanted a better one.” Olive patted my shoulder like she was giving me bad news, and I couldn’t help but laugh at our bit.
I wouldn’t say I was eager to have a little sister more than a decade younger than me, but once she turned five we were suddenly best friends.
“Keep it up and I’ll drop your key lime pie.” I threatened and that made her eyes go wide.
“You wouldn’t dare.” In the last two years, Olive’s new hobby had been baking, and my god she was really good at it. In the short time she’s become a baking star, we’ve let her take the lead on desserts for holidays and birthdays. The gene could have only come from Clay—he was a beast in the kitchen—and our mom couldn’t tell you where the measuring cups were if her life depended on it.
Before I continued, the SUV glided into the driveway, putting my family’s mansion into full view.
“Fighting’s over. Welcome home, Nola.” Clay smiled before parking and jumping out of the truck.
“Time for my reckoning,” I mumbled to myself.
My reckoning ended up coming in the shape of my militant sister who chose to berate me like we were on an episode of a high stakes baking show. At first I thought she was doing a bit, but when she made me call myself an idiot sandwich because Ialmostmixed up the baking soda and baking powder, I knew she meant business.
Our mom had been locked in her office since the three of us stepped through the door, with Flavor Flav winning the battle of greeting me first. Now he’s glued to my hip, hoping I dropped some butter cream frosting for him to lick up. I felt the need to intrude during the holiday break but through the door it sounded like my mom had been on non-stop calls and I wasn’t exactly looking to get belittled so soon after my mixup in the kitchen.
Ever since I was born, Thanksgiving Day always consisted of going to football games to watch my dad’s brother play in the league. Thus, celebrating the day after had become our own family tradition. And with that tradition is a rotating guest list, that, to the outside view looks nuts as hell, but to me made the holiday even more special.
Long before Clay came into the picture, holidays always consisted of me, my mom, and Nolan. During Olivia and Nolan’s prime it was clear the two were never going to last long. She was water, and he was oil. Olivia couldn’t keep her mouth shut, and Nolan was constantly sticking his foot in his. I think they would’ve ended sooner if I hadn’t come along. Somewhere between me being named after my dad yet taking my mom’s last name, their relationship quickly fizzled.
But damn they were good co-parents.
My first steps were on hardwood. I did my homework under the bright glow of arena lights. I was raised going to their games and sitting on their laps during media interviews. I was observing assistant coaches create plays and give instructions from behind the bench. Even if my genes weren’t meant to be a professional athlete, I might have gotten here anyway by osmosis.
Without being in a relationship, my parents still wanted me to have a stereotypical upbringing. Which of course meant holidays expanding to include new significant others because we were acoolfamily. But the girlfriends my dad had never stuck around. When my mom had Olive, my baby sister’s name possibly being revenge for my own, Nolan became her god-dad.
Next on the guest lists were my aunts. Depending on the year, Rashida, her wife Allison, and my own god-mom, Evie, would come through. Something about a room crowded with people six feet and taller just felt like home.
“You’re not whipping the cream fast enough, Nolly,” Olive complained.
“Sorry, chef,” I mocked, “my mind’s on other things.”
“Like getting your ass beat by your nemesis,” Olive said as she removed pies from the oven.
