Page 51 of Big Dill

Giggling, the kids fight over seats and part of me wants to sit there with them, the part of me that feels like I don’t belong at the adult table—like I haven’t been adulting properly in years.

Then Liam gestures, pulling out a chair. “Jami,” he says, and I glance at him. “Right here,” he adds, and I step up to him, letting myself sink into it as I think about how easy it is to hand myself over to someone else, let them make the decisions I can’t seem to make.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

Across from me, Brody settles with a grunt, and the rest of the family fills in around us. Plates are heaped with Newfoundland favorites—tender roast beef glistening with gravy, buttery mashed potatoes, and golden-brown turnip cakes. I resist the urge to moan out loud when a bite of savory beef melts on my tongue. The smell of pie in the oven waiting in the wings.

“Darn, I forgot the pickles.” Lori makes a move to get up. “Can’t have beef without my pickle.”

Since I’m closest to the kitchen, I raise a hand to stop her and stand. “I’ll get them.”

“Thanks, Ducky. They’re just on the counter.”

I step into the kitchen, scanning quickly before spotting the jar, its mustard sauce glinting under the warm kitchen light. I carry it back to the table. “Did you make these?” I ask.

“I did,” Sadie says. “They’re Brody’s favorites.”

“I love pickles, too,” I say.

“Just not pickleball,” my brother fires back, chuckling.

I try to open the jar, but the lid refuses to budge. Glancing at Brody, our eyes meet and we exchange a silent grin. Jars are tricky. An inside joke.

Liam reaches for the jar. “Let me help you with that.”

Before he can take it, Brody’s hand shoots across the table and claims it. “That’s okay.” All eyes turn to him and hush falls over the table for a beat, everyone watching his display of… strength? Competitiveness? Something undefined.

“There’s a trick to these old jars,” he says, tapping the lid with his spoon before twisting it free with ease. “See?”

He hands it back.

Sadie passes me a clean fork. “Fill yer boots.”

Fill yer boots.

Help yourself.

Eat as much as you want.

I unceremoniously dig into the jar, fishing our chucks of mustard pickles. I like that there’s no fuss. Not everything has to be displayed in fancy bowls. After I put some on my plate I hand the jar to Lori. As the jar makes its way around the table, plates clang, spoons scrape, laughter punctuates the air, and everything smells of warmth and home.

Liam picks up where Jaxon left off. “You don’t like pickleball?”

I shrug. “I don’t know if I don’t like it… I’m just not good.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Brody says. “It was your first time. No one’s great their first time. Things take practice.”

“Tell the truth, Brody. If you did a Google search for ‘sucks at pickleball’ you’d find my face.”

That pulls a laugh from the table. “Brody’s right,” Rachel says and puts her hand on Jaxon’s arm. “These two are professionals. Let’s see how well they’d do in one of your yoga classes. Probably couldn’t hold a downward dog without toppling over and taking the entire class with them.”

God, she’s so sweet.

“I’m really looking forward to your classes, and thanks for scheduling hot yoga on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

Before I can say anything, Liam touches my arm. “I can teach you pickleball,” he offers. “I’m not a professional, but I know a thing or two.”

“It’s okay,” Brody says quickly…too quickly, judging by the way everyone is watching him again. “We’re teaching her.”