"Good morning to you too, Ruth."
"Have you put botox in your lips?"
I blink and scoff at the same time. "Botox?"
"Yes. Botox. In the lips." She gestures vaguely at my facelike it's evidence in a criminal trial. "Because I have been looking at your mouth for two weeks and it is not natural. No one has lips like that without help. I Googled it."
I give her the Rome look — the one that says I cannot believe I have to explain this to you.
"Ruth, botox is not what goes in your lips."
"What goes in your lips then?"
"Filler, Ruth. You put filler in your lips."
She looks between us, face twisted in utter confusion, like I've just told her the earth is flat and she's trying to decide whether to believe me.
"What's the difference?"
"About thirty years of medical advancement, you dinosaur."
Erin snorts, the sound escaping before she can stop it, and Ruth's head whips toward her, offended and delighted in equal measure. That's her default state. Perpetually scandalized and loving every second of it.
"The face," Ruth continues, undeterred, waving a hand in the general direction of my entire head. "It's too perfect. We've been over this."
A big sigh leaves me. "We have indeed been over this."
She ignores me completely. "I'm just saying. In my day, a girl looked like a girl. You look like someone drew you."
I catch Erin's eye for backup. She's suddenly very busy, lips pressed together, shoulders shaking. Traitor.
"Thank you?"
Ruth tears off a piece of muffin, chews slowly, studies me with the a critical eye. "It wasn't entirely a compliment."
"Ruth," Erin interjects, tying off a wrapped order, "youwould never ask Rome if he's had work done and he has the exact same mouth. It's a Moreland thing."
Ruth sips her coffee. When she speaks, her voice is pure mischief.
"Yeah, and you'd know, wouldn't you? Seeing how you're locked on those lips every time you're in the same room."
Erin turns pink. Not just her cheeks, but her entire upper body, from collarbones to hairline, flushes the color of the roses in the display case. I gag. Loudly. Theatrically. With my whole body.
"I am begging you," I plead, hand pressed to my chest like I've been wounded, "both of you, never to reference my brother's mouth in my presence again."
"It's your lips, sweetheart."
"You brought upmylips. Mine. Not his."
Ruth waves a hand like this is a technicality beneath her notice.
"Anyway. I wouldn't dare say any of this to Rome. That man would give me a look that would freeze the harbor."
Oh, please. Ruth, who once told the mayor his tie was ugly to his face at a town hall meeting. Ruth, who has never met a boundary she didn't bulldoze.
"Ruth," I fold my arms. "You are afraid of absolutely no one."
"That is not true. I am afraid of several people."
