“Oh my god!”
The voice makes us jump in fear.
“What the—? Why are you here?” Liem asks.
A near clone of Liem stands in front of us. Thinner, more feminine, but with the same impossibly pretty face. She crosses her arms and wears an expression of triumph rather than betrayal. “Uh, to make sure you have a pulse and bring you to dinner since you haven’t been answering your phone. Mom got back last night.”
I gasp. “You’re Liem’s sister!” I announce as if it’s news to anyone but me.
“Yep. Who the hell are you and what did I just interrupt?” Her conniving smirk is soyounger sister, it’s not even funny.
“This is May.” Liem introduces us with minimal enthusiasm. “This is Bri.”
“Bri? The Brooklyn baddie?”
That’s my nickname?Better question: Which one of them gave me that nickname?
She looks between the two of us. “You really aren’t a virgin, huh?”
“May, I swear to—”
“It’s nice to meet you, Bri. You should come to dinner tonight. Our dad is cooking.”
“I’d love to,” I agree. Seeing Liem cringe, I correct myself. “I mean, unless we have other plans.”
“If you want to go, we can,” he says, not a glimmer of excitement in his tone or expression.
I turn so May can’t see me. “Doyouwant to go?” I whisper just loud enough for him to hear.
He wars with his thoughts, but his sister’s wishes win out. “We can.”
Twenty-seven
Liem
Even though Bri loves to eat—somethingIlove abouther—and she will absolutely enjoy my dad’s cooking, subjecting her to my family’s dynamic seems cruel. She understands what happened when we were growing up, why my parents split up, why they’re back together now, and, most importantly, how that makes me feel. Yet something about having her see it for herself has me intimidated.
She has my back no matter what. I’ve been truthful the whole time, but just like a therapist, she may see something I don’t and show me I’ve been looking at it wrong all along.
I don’t want to be wrong in my feelings toward Dad, or have May think I subliminally begrudge her getting more attention during our formative years. It’s . . . a lot.
While we sit and eat, Bri is the star of the show, beaming sunlight onto an October day in Tacoma. She has my mom transfixed with a spirited breakdown of the museum design styles between two Franks and one of the Hadid sisters—I think, don’t quote me on that—and even gets the notoriously untrusting Bean to fall asleep in her lap. When talking about our time in Brooklyn, she keeps it cute, playing up my success at work and my cooking talents, avoiding everything related to us sleeping one room away from each other, orwitheach other. If I didn’t know her better, I wouldn’t catch all the ways she manages to steer the conversation away from any opportunity for them to backhand me while complimenting her. For once, I get to enjoy my meal in peace.
Dad seems pleased by Bri’s presence. His version of a smile is usually more of a hint of enjoyment, but this time, it’s the real,cheek-creasing deal.
“You like it?” Dad asks in his gruff, quiet mumble. Bri is inhaling the spiced mango cobbler they make for the restaurant.
“It’s amazing! I’ve never had this with mangoes, and now I don’t think I can go back,” she lies. Her voice has a slightly higher pitch and faster cadence when she fibs. She would never deny peach supremacy. “Thank you for letting me experience this. If I lived here, I wouldn’t fit in these jeans, I can tell you that.”
The four of them laugh together, and I’m in awe. Bri is lovable. Plain and simple.
“Can I help you clean up?” Bri asks Mom when she stands to clear the table.
“No, please. You are our guest.” Her eyes shift to me, telling me I should offer instead.
“I’ll help.”
I look to Bri to confirm she’ll be okay without me. She runs her hand over my arm with a smile. Of course my social butterfly will be fine. With a pile of dishes in hand and my security blanket in the next room, I have a feeling my mom is two seconds away from—
