I laughed. “You haven’t heard about him by now?”
“I’ve been busy with a bat rescue.” Her face brightened when I slid a plate of food in front of her. “Awesome, thanks.” She groaned. “How do you make this taste so good?”
“It’s called seasonings. You’re just used to Lunchables.”
“Don’t knock them. They hit the spot when you’re on the move.”
I sliced thick pieces of sourdough from the remaining loaf I made before I went out of town. It was stale, but I soaked it ina bit of water and revived it enough to toast it slightly before slathering it in butter and a dash of spicy mayo.
The building of the food soothed the rough edges. I’d been doing it with Dutch for weeks now. Cooking was our thing and I was cognizant of the fact that it did the same for him. We were so alike, but in wildly different ways.
“So, how long have you been hitting that?”
I dropped a slice of tomato on the floor.
“Guess that answers that.” Lib’s smug voice brought the annoyance back to the front burner.
“That’s not why I’m pissed at him. The sex part is damn good. Maybe too good.”
“Okay, bragger.”
I huffed out a laugh as I tossed the tomato into the trash before hurrying back to the stove to flip the sandwich before it went from crispy to black. “What happened to Scott?”
“He’s not worth talking about. Your guy is way more interesting.”
I turned around to snag one of the slices of mozzarella before she ate them all. Too late. “Damn, Lib.”
“Sorry. I was starving.”
“I don’t know where you put it.”
She slapped her butt. “Right there. Haven’t had any complaints though.” She winked at me.
One thing my little sister never lacked in was confidence. “Now, quit changing the subject. You were all ready to rip. What happened.”
I sighed. “What’s it going to change?”
“That’s not the point of venting.”
I plated her food and added a handful of Fritos and a pickle spear, then slid it across the island to her.
“Man, you are better than Mom times a million.”
My eyes prickled again. “She just didn’t pay attention to cooking a real meal.”
“She didn’t pay attention period. You’d think she would grab a clue now that hockey isn’t the focus of the world, and yet nope.” She crunched down on a Frito. “We can crap on Mom another day. Talk.”
“Dutch is...”
“What?”
“Hey’s carrying something.”
“Oh, don’t start that nonsense. Men are always carrying some crap and we’re supposed to just forgive it and work around it.”
“No, it’s not something like mommy issues. It’s something heavier. Something that’s literally done something to change him on a cellular level.” I didn’t know how to explain it.
“He’s not Spiderman,” she said around a bite of her sandwich.
