Page 16 of Cabin Fever

Dahlia scoffs. “What about Dad?”

“I doubt he even knows where their wedding photos are.”

“If he still has them.”

We slow when we see Mom rearranging the sugar packets by color at the coffee station.

Dahlia walks up and taps her shoulder. “Uh, Mom⁠—”

“Wasn't the cake wonderful? I told Pam's people, don't skimp on the ganache⁠—“

“Mom.”

Her hands stop on the sugar. For a second, my mother looks every minute of her age and every mile of the last fifteen years, and then the crank turns, and the sun comes back up. “Are you both having a good time?”

“I mean, could’ve been better without the slideshow Rick Roll,” I say.

She waves me off. “Someone made a mistake. Old files get mixed in. Computers.” Mom waves at the universe.

“Mom, stop.” I grab her hand. “I’m sure that sucked for you.”

Her lips pinch and pull to the side. “I’ve had plenty of time to get over your father, thank you very much. But it does make you think.”

I frown. “About what?”

She shrugs, pulling her hand from mine and straightening the white tablecloth. “It’s hard to really ever know people. How can you ever be sure?” She straightens and walks away without giving us a second look. Which is a good thing because we’re both gaping.

“Did she just—?” Dahlia starts, but doesn’t finish her sentence.

Yeah. She just.

Our mother, the woman who has talked about me and Dahlia getting married someday since the time we were toddlers, just bagged on this wedding. “And at her favorite daughter’s welcome dinner.”

“I’m not her favorite daughter,” Dahlia says.

I don’t argue back because I don’t have to. We both know she only said that to be kind. “Was I more fun?”

“What?”

“When we were younger. Was I more fun?”

Dahlia’s brows pinch. “Well, I think we were all a lot more fun when we didn’t have mortgages to pay or vehicles to register.”

She’s making a joke, but I can’t jump to enjoying the humor. “I’m serious. You’re still fun.” I look at her, taking in her blond hair, curling around her ears. The laugh lines barely starting to form around her eyes. The sparkly blue of her irises.

Dahlia drops her eyes, fiddling with her fingernail. “I think . . . someone had to be responsible. You know?” She looks up, an apologetic smile on her face. “I think it’s a miracle that any of us are able to have fun at all.”

I nod. She’s not wrong, but it still stings a little. “How can I get it back?”

Dahlia’s face drops like she just saw someone kick a puppy. “Harp, you don’t have to get anything⁠—”

“You said it. Finn said it.”

“Finn said you aren’t fun?”

I draw a deep breath and shake the question off. “He was mostly joking.”

“So was I. Mostly.” She smiles, making a face. “That’s why I didn’t want you taking all of this on. You don’t have to be⁠—”