I snap my head up and charge forward with my pie, but not before I hear Sophie say to Milo, “Better suit up, Carter. Looks like you might have a game to win . . . or lose.”
When I step inside the house, Emma wraps me in a tender hug, her wisps of blonde hair tickling my nose. “I’ve missed you, Sadie.”
Emma lives in Austin. Works as a financial advisor for a rapidly growing dog-wellness subscription startup that offers organic treat boxes and “canine mindfulness retreats.” According to Emma, the dogs are better off financially than most humans.
I summon my best classical tone. “Indeed, my dear! The days felt quite empty without your company.”
Her arms tighten around me. “And your bookish humor.”
“The Summers sisters are back together!” Sophie squeals as she throws her arms around us.
The Summers sisters.We’re all two years apart, almost to the day—our birthdays growing up were one big town-wide party with bouncy houses and creepy clowns.
I feel Milo enter before I hear him. I glance from the group hug and catch him smiling at the family photos that hang from ceiling to floor. A large collage of life lived. He’s in many of them.
“Milo Carter!” Mom smiles as she joins us in the foyer. Her long brown hair is pulled back in a clip, showing her roots that are a gleaming silver, and her feet are bare on the hardwood. She’s wearing her signature black leggings and colorful tank top—today it’s turquoise—her arms toned from a determination to be the strongest she can be to help Dad. “Benji and everyone else in this town told me you were back. You’re a little late in coming to see me, don’t you think?”
Milo’s smile widens before he walks over and hugs my mom. “Sorry, Mrs. Summers.”
“Mrs. Summers?” she questions, dark brows arching as she pulls back from his embrace.
“Marge,” Milo corrects himself.
“I made your favorite. Meat loaf and potatoes,” she says.
It’s the meal my mom always made on Thursday night for Milo before a big game.
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“Well, I figured you’ve missed it since it’s been about ten years since you’ve had it.”
Milo’s grin falters, just for a second, and his voice softens. “I have missed it.”
“Benji is already at the table. Let’s not keep him waiting.”
We all follow her into the dining room, where Dad is sitting patiently, scrolling on his phone.
“Did you know,” he says without looking up, “there’s a man in Oklahoma who built a grill out of a washing machine? Says it holds heat better.”
“A washing machine?” Mom repeats with a tone of surprise.
“That’s what it says,” he replies, turning his phone around for all of us to see.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Benji.” Mom grabs her readers perched on top of her head and snatches his phone. “This has got to be AI. Sadie, is this AI?”
She hands the phone out to me, and I take it reluctantly, glancing at the post of a shirtless man grilling steaks in what appears to be a washing machine. “I don’t know, Mom. You can’t trust most things on the internet.”
I give the phone back to my dad and press a kiss to his temple. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, cutie,” he replies with a smile as he puts his phone away.
Milo walks over to Dad, this time bending over and giving him a warm hug. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“You don’t need an invitation to sit at our table, Milo. You’re family.”
I swallow down acid. Probably indigestion from having dessert before dinner.
My sisters take their usual seats across the table, but before I get to mine beside my dad, Milo pulls out my chair.
