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It’s like no time has passed between us, like we’re back to being teenagers, giggling about boys at school.
I tell her about almost taking Brody’s head off with a wrench and cussing him out, and she gasps and proclaims it ‘classic Rix.’ I don’t dispute that she’s right.
I tell her about the almost kiss that Reed interrupted, and she raises a knowing brow at me that I pretend not to see.
I tell her about being stingy and bitchy inside about introducing her to Brody, and she smiles as she tells me I’m a good sister. I almost believe her.
And last but not least, I tell her about that mouth-fucking kiss. We both fall back on the couch, swooning. I even drink another glass of wine in one gulp, like I’m swallowing medicine, but instead of a gross bitter flavor, it’s just a little bit sweet this time. Not too bad, just like telling Emily wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. And also, I might be a little tipsy.
“I’m no saint, obviously, and have kissed my share of guys. But I swear, Em . . . that was something else entirely.”
“So, now what?” she asks, careful to let me fill in the details, an allowance I appreciate more than she could possibly know.
“Now, I’m gonna call him. Obviously.” I laugh as I say it, but I mean every word.
Chapter 8
Erica
“Remind me again how I let myself get talked into this?” I grumble, holding Em’s bags while she browses.
“Because you love your sister, you’re a glutton for punishment, and I think you secretly like to be forced to do things that don’t involve testosterone and beer.” My mom’s right, as always.
“And so, here we are,” Emily summarizes, stopping to sniff at a candle from one of the vendors’ booths.
We’ve been to the farmer’s market on the Great Falls side of the mountain a few times, and despite my current show of fake grumpiness, I always enjoy it. It’s just so early, and I have so much work to do at the shop, but Emily’s invitation had taken priority and Reed can handle the garage today.
I look at Mom, watching her happily shop with Emily.
We are an interesting family from the outside looking in. Emily and I have tawny skin, freckles, a dark curtain of thick, straight hair, and deep brown eyes, while Mom and Dad are picture-perfect Americana, with blond hair, blue eyes, and an affection for baseball and the ‘old days,’ which are apparently the 70s. Mom says it’s because things were simpler then. Dad says it’s because they were high all the time.
But I’ve never known anything different since Keith and Janice Cole adopted Emily and me when were barely even two. My earliest memories are of Mom and Dad dancing around the kitchen with dinner cooking on the stovetop. I’m glad I only have happy memories, and neither Emily nor I have ever felt called to find out ‘where we came from’ because we already know. We came from Mom and Dad’s heart, just like they always told us when we were kids, and you can tell by the way Mom looks on fondly while Emily flits here and there.
“Are you sure there’s no beer here? Seems like they might have some craft brews somewhere . . .” I look around, only half kidding.
Mom pushes her black-framed glasses up her nose so she can glare at me properly. “It’s not even noon, Rix.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder, squeezing her tightly. “I know, Mom. I’ll take it home for later. Promise.”
She lifts one arm, patting my cheek softly. “You’ll have to help me pick out a bottle or two for Keith too. But none of that high alcohol content stuff like you got him for Christmas. Good Lord, he was drunker than a sailor on shore leave! I had to put him to bed before he passed out in his recliner.” Her pat turns more slap with that informational tidbit, even though it wasn’t my fault . . . mostly.
Still makes me laugh. “Well, I didn’t mean for Dad to drink it like he does Budweiser. That was Bourbon County Coffee Stout, his two favorite things in one . . . beer and coffee. And fifteen dollars a bottle. It was supposed to be for something special, not to crack open while he watched a rerun of his favorite game.”
“Game five, 1956 World Series. Don Larsen pitched a perfect game. Never seen nothing like it.” We say it together, Mom and me, having heard Dad say the exact thing more times than can be counted.
“Well, he enjoyed it all right. Maybe a bit too much. I think I’ll skip getting him any more beer this time,” she says thoughtfully. “Maybe just find him some beef jerky instead.”
