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She’s pretty. I’ll give Michael that.

“Michael, aren’t you supposed to be doing your fucking job?” Priya slurs.

“I’m taking a siesta.”

“Well then, who the fuck is watching merch? We could get robbed blind!”

“Relax, Corey’s got it.”

Corey’s our tour manager. He wanted to get a job working for Microsoft with his business degree. He wound up working for four degenerate rock stars.

“But that’s not Corey’s job; that’s your job,” I say, hoping to illuminate the problem.

“We’ll be gone ten minutes tops. I swear. I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

The woman at his side blushes, “I’m Abigail Eisley. I won the T-shirt contest,” she explains.

“Well, lovely to meet you, Abigail. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Allison shows me a photo of her mom in the nineties, and it’s like I’m looking at a time capsule. I knew she looked familiar! But I thought it was a case of Deja vu.

“Why didn’t your mom say anything at Thanksgiving?” I ask.

Allison shrugged. “My mom’s shy about her art stuff, and Lyndsey sent everyone like ten text messages warning us not to ‘be weird. So, I bet she just kept it to herself.”

“I wish she’d told me! I feel like an asshole!” I say.

Allison laughs, “It’s okay. But tell me about your brother. Is he alive?” Her voice is small. My heart breaks a bit as I pull up his contact on my phone.

“Very much so. He owns a T-shirt shop in Bristol. This is his number. You can go ahead and call him if you want, or I can give him a heads up, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I’ll call him,” Allison types the number into her phone, and I study her face.

When I think about it, she does have the classic Exter nose, with a bump along the bridge and everything. I can’t believe I have a niece. This rules! My brother had no other children that I know of, and I’m not exactly a family man.

“Can I hug you?” I ask suddenly.

Allison leans across the table and hugs me.

“Welcome to the family, I guess? Lyndsey’s going to lose her mind.”

Allison pulls away, and her face pales, “Oh, shit! Lyndsey! I left her in the parking lot in case you were a serial killer, and I needed to make a break for it.”

I pause, “Wait, I was your errand? Why didn’t Lyndsey tell me?”

The door swings open, and Lyndsey walks in, fuming, “Allison! It’s been half an hour! Did you get my text? I thought you were getting zip-tied and shoved in a trunk somewhere! Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

Then she sees me and pauses, “Vince? What are you doing?”

Her eyes flit between us, and her face pales, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Are you? Fuck. I can’t do this. I’m out.” She turns on her heel to leave, and I grab her wrist, “Lyndsey, it’s not what you think.”

Lyndsey freezes mid-step, “You’re not her Dad?”

“No, but he is my uncle! Does that make you my aunt?” Allison quips.

Lyndsey grabs a chair and pulls it up to the table, “Wait, so your brother with the print shop …”

“Had a one-night stand with Abbie approximately twenty-seven years ago, resulting in your best friend? Yes.” I finish.