Page 20 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Yes,” I reply, slipping my phone into my pocket.

She circles the island, lifting the weights over her head with impressive determination. “And you’ll be home by eleven?”

“I’ll call if I’m going to be late.” Hopefully that will stop the interrogation before it escalates.

She slows to a jog in place. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay home and watch horror movies with your father and me?”

“Hard pass,” I say, scrunching my nose. “But enjoy Frightening Movie Night.”

“Spooky,” she corrects with a grin. “We call it Spooky Movie Night.”

Every year, from September first through October thirty-first, my parents dedicate their Friday nights to watching every scary movie they can get their hands on. They’ve been doing it since they were kids, and as much as I pretend to be annoyed, it’s actually kind of adorable.

“I love you,” I say, hugging her tight. The scent of lavender lotion wraps around me like a comfort blanket.

“I love you more, Lu-Lu Bear.”

“You’re leaving?” Dad pouts as he ambles into the kitchen, his red hair sticking up in every direction. “You’re not staying for Spooky Movie Night?”

“I have a catering job with Aunt Joss.”

He clutches his chest. “You would rather make money than spend quality time with your ’rents?”

“Rents?” I repeat.

“It’s what all the cool kids used to call parents,” Mom says, winking. “We’re getting old, Thad, aren’t we?”

“Well,” I say, grabbing my bag, “you learn something new every day.”

“You do.” Dad pulls Mom close. “Have fun with my baby sis.”

“I hardly call serving food in a pencil skirt fun,” I mutter, tugging at the stiff black fabric hugging my thighs.

Mom rests an arm across Dad’s shoulders. “Be careful tonight, Lu-Lu Bear.”

“Always.”

As I pull the front door shut behind me, the sun dips behind the trees. A cool autumn breeze drifts by as Aunt Joss pulls into the driveway in her old white van. Dad’s younger sister has always been a free spirit, but in the kitchen, she’s a genius. Five years ago, she turned that genius into a catering business, and I’ve been helping her out a few times a month ever since.

“How’s my favorite niece?” Aunt Joss sing-songs as I climb into the van, the air instantly filling with the rich scents of mini quiches, lobster bisque, and prime rib. There’s eggplant parmesan, too. It’s her specialty. I silently hope she made chocolate mousse for dessert.

Foil-covered trays are wedged into every available space, stacked between insulated carriers and boxes of polished silverware. Each turn will inevitably send serving spoons clattering against metal pans. A handwritten schedule is taped to the dashboard beside one of Aunt Joss’s grocery lists, and an emergency sewing kit hangs from the rearview mirror. Her van always feels like a kitchen, office, and disaster-response vehicle compressed into four wheels.

“I’m your only niece,” I remind her.

“And by default,” she says, peeling out of the driveway like a racecar driver, “my favorite.”

“Lucky me.”

“You are lucky. You’re a Bennett. And Bennetts are lucky.”

“I know,” I yawn. “The Lucky Bennetts.”

“It all started six generations ago,” she begins, slipping into storyteller mode. “When your great-great-great—”

“—great-great grandfather struck gold in California,” I finish. “Then the Bennetts moved east, bought land, and secured the blessing of a coven of immortal witches who still haunt the area.”

“There were no witches,” Aunt Joss groans.