"I'm just asking. Tall, bossy, protective, grunts a lot—some people are into that. Is he hot?"
"Mel. That's my brother."
"I'm not asking you to find him attractive. I'm asking for an objective assessment."
"There is no objective assessment. He's mybrother. He's disgusting."
"So he's ugly?"
"I didn't say that. I said he's disgusting. There's a difference."
"That sounds like he's not ugly."
"I'm not having this conversation."
"You could introduce us. Next time you visit, bring him along. I'll make stew."
"You want me to bring my brother to your cottage in the middle of the woods." She stares at me. "My enormous, overprotective brother. To meet my friend. Who he doesn't know about."
"He doesn't know about me?"
"He knows I travel. He doesn't know the details."
"So I'm a secret."
"You're not a secret. You're just—unmentioned."
"That's the same thing."
"It absolutely is not." She's tying herbs so aggressively the stems are snapping. "And no, I'm not introducing you. He'd be weird about it, I'd have to listen to opinions I didn't ask for, and then I'd never hear the end of it. Drop it."
"Fine. But for the record, the fact that you won't answer the question is an answer."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
Late afternoon sun through the window, the smell of stew and dried herbs.
"—and then he tried to tell me my boots were worn through. My boots. Which are fine."
"Are they fine?"
She looks down at her boots. The left sole is visibly separating from the leather.
"They have character."
"They have holes."
"Character holes."
I throw a dried chamomile bundle at her head and she catches it, laughing.
We're still arguing about it when the scratching starts at the door.
Not knocking.
