She called over her shoulder. “Joanie, another apple pie mimosa.”
“Coming up,” Joan replied, then turned to make my drink. I watched as she confidently went to work mixing sparkling wine and fresh-pressed apple cider before draping a curling apple peel on the side of the glass and carefully grating a cinnamon stick with a piece of kitchen equipment I’d never used before.
Brady’s sisters were an interesting pair. Candace was bubbly and fun, while Joan was stoic and reserved. Joan was only six years older than me, butsomehow she’d always seemed like the adultiest adult in any room. She didn’t smile often and laughed even less. But she was one hell of a farmer and would do anything for her family. I’d watched her represent Judd’s Orchard over the years and answer any call put out into the community for volunteers or donations.
It was funny to hear Candace call her “Joanie.” Joan didn’t have the sort of attitude or facial expressions that invited nicknames, but she was here interacting with all of us nonetheless. She kept quiet during book club for the most part, but she was polite and seemed to really listen when people talked. I’d caught her nodding along when Bonnie made a good point or when Becca noted a touching quote from whatever we were reading.
Joan wasn’t the sort of person you could just win over with baseless charm. For some reason, I wanted to earn her respect. Hell, I thought I might want tobeher when I grew up.
“Here you go,” Candace said brightly, placing the drink at my elbow.
“Thank you,” I said. “Both of you.”
Candace smiled and moved down to Magdaline to get her order. Joan nodded at me and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was brown, shot through with a healthy amount of silver. She’d started going gray in her twenties, and I loved that she’d embraced it. It suited her.
Ten minutes later, once the charcuterie spread was demolished, we moved the meeting to the living room. There was more furniture now than there had been the last time I’d visited, and a large area rug really pulled the room together.
We discussed this month’s book for the next hour, but I noticed Larry stayed quiet at my side, wedged into the corner of the large sectional sofa. She was usually the first to voice her opinion or call out the miscommunication trope or an unnecessary third-act breakup. But today she mostly nodded along to what everyone else said. Becca tried several times to draw her into the conversation but eventually gave up when Larry persisted in one-word replies.
My worry grew as the evening progressed, and when everyone stood to gather their jackets and bags, I hung back, hoping I could get my cousin alone so we could talk.
I hugged my sister goodbye and promised to grab dinner with her sometime thisweek, and as I turned back to find Larry, I saw her lingering in the living room with Becca.
The typically cheerful woman wore a serious face as she spoke, and Larry nodded along to whatever she was saying. Then Becca wrapped her in a tight hug.
When they finally broke apart, Becca met my gaze and approached. She didn’t say anything, just smiled and squeezed my arm as she passed to say her goodbyes to the remainder of her guests.
The concern that had been developing became fully formed after I witnessed their exchange. What did Becca know about my cousin? And why weren’t they telling me?
I beelined straight for Larry, wide-eyed and a little frantic. “Are you sick? Are you dying? What is going on?”
Larry’s sullen expression turned to one of surprise. “What? No, I’m not dying. What the hell? Why would you think that?”
“Because,” I accused, “you’ve been off for a while. Not talking to me and not being yourself. You’re too quiet. Too reserved. And then I see Becca over here comforting you. If I were dying, I’d want Becca to hug me too.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Larry muttered with an eye roll, completely ignoring my panic. “Come on. Let’s go talk in the Jeep.”
We grabbed our coats and made our way to my vehicle. I watched my cousin warily while I turned on the engine and cranked up the heat.
“Well?” I prompted, annoyed with how high my voice came out but too worried to care.
Larry rubbed her hands together in front of the vent before sighing. “I’m not dying, Mac. I’m perfectly healthy. I’ve just been going through some things.”
“What things?”
“I ...” She paused, searching the windshield and the trees beyond for words or courage, I didn’t know what. “I’m bi.”
I blinked, waiting for her to finish her sentence. When she didn’t, I asked, “Bi what?”
Finally, she turned to look at me. “Bisexual, Mac. I am bisexual. I am attracted to both men and women.”
My mind went fuzzy like static between stations. I thought about Larry dating Edgar Matthews in the eighth grade and losing her virginity senior year to Justin Crabtree. I thought about the numerous dick jokes over the years and the way she was obsessed with Henry Cavill and his muscles.
“Oh,” I managed. Then I thought about how Larry had been acting recently, how she’d been awkward with Kayla and needed backup for the bonfire when her friend had brought a guy with her. “Oh,” I repeated.
“Yeah,” Larry breathed, looking away.
“Wait.” I hurried to reassure her. “I don’t care about that, Larry. I mean, I do care, but not, like, to judge you or something. You can love whoever you want to love, and I’m going to keep right on loving you. I just mean, what happened to make you so unhappy lately? Did something go down with Kayla?”
