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“You’re such a spoilsport,” she grumbles, frowning at me. “Anyone would think you don’t want to see Em and me dirty dance together.”
I groan and rake my fingers through my hair. “Why the fuck would I want to see my sister do that?” I growl. “You’re sick, Aubrey. I mean, watching you is one thing—”
“Is it?” she interrupts, her lips twitching. “You’d watch me dirty dance then?”
My face heats as I struggle to answer her. When I see she’s trying not to laugh, I know I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like kiss her.
“I’m going. When are we going to let the guys know what they’re in for?”
She shrugs. “I’ll invite them around here tonight. We’ll tell Max then, too. This will work, Drew. It’s a solid plan. We’re gonna do this, okay?”
I nod and force myself to smile. I want to believe we can do it, but a small part of me is terrified of failing. For her sake, I nod and reach over to squeeze her hand.
“We got this.”
Chapter Eight
Aubrey
“I’ve invited Drew and the guys around tonight for drinks, okay?”
I stand at Max’s bedroom door and peer inside. I can just make out the shape of his body on his bed. He rolls over and switches on his lamp, squinting up at me and wiping the sleep from his eyes.
After making sure this plan can actually work, Drew and I are ready to let the others in on it. I’m nervous because I have no idea how they’re going to react. Especially Max. But, at the end of the day, I know this will work. It has to.
“How long have I been asleep?” he mumbles, struggling to sit up. I walk over to help him, but he waves me off. “I’m okay, Aubs.”
I hang back although it kills me to watch him fight to do something so normal for the rest of us, my fingers fidgeting in front of me. He hates it when I try to help him, but I do it without even thinking—it’s my second nature, I think. I just want to make things as easy as I can for him. I did even when he wasn’t sick. I got the nurture, and he got the nature. Nope, that’s a lie; he got the nurture, too. A pair of peas in a pod, I guess.
“Only a few hours. I wanted to let you rest as long as you were able,” I say, answering his question. “Mum said you were having trouble sleeping through the night, but then I thought you might be hungry, so I’ve made soup. Mum also said you can usually handle that on your stomach when you’re not feeling well. Is that okay?”
“You’re cooking is enough to kill any appetite I have. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” he chuckles. I glower at him, but it’s nice to hear him laugh again, even if it is at my expense and maybe a little morbid. How do you tell a guy whose body is giving out on him that it’s too soon to be making death jokes? I suppose you can’t, can you?
Max stands up and I hand him his robe, consciously making sure I don’t try to help him. He follows me out to the kitchen, where the aroma of chicken soup fills the air. He wanders over to the trash and picks up an empty can, laughing and shaking his head.
“Opening a can and heating it doesn’t exactly qualify as cooking,” he says.
“Yeah, well, it’s my kind of cooking,” I respond defensively, snatching the can off him. I toss it back in the bin and set two bowls on the counter. “Go and sit down,” I order.
I pour the steaming soup straight from the pot into two bowls and carry them over to where he’s sitting, placing one in front of him, the other on the opposite side. He obliges, and I wait to take my seat until he’s taken his.
“You better have given me the one with more,” he teases. I smile, my mind going back to our childhood when we used to fight over which drink had more in it, or who got the bigger slice of cake. I remember our dad complaining because I even had to have the blue cup because Max had a blue cup. Then, as I grew older, everything became a competition: who finished dinner first, who got to sit in the front seat. Still, as I sit with the soup, I find myself wondering if I can finish before Max, so for the first time, I can actually win. It’s hard being ten and being in competition with a teenage boy—they can eat enough for ten men and still have room to steal the dessert.
“Remember the time you stole the ice cream from the freezer, and when Mum realised one was missing, she refused to let us have another until one of us owned up to it?” Max chuckles and takes a small sip of the broth, leaving the noodles and small chunks of chicken behind in the bowl.
I laugh and roll my eyes. “It’s been twelve years. You can own up to it now,” I say. “I was so pissed at you for making me miss out. You could have at least taken one for me. You knew she wouldn’t let either of us have any until we fessed up.”
“It wasn’t me!” he laughs and holds his hands up in surrender. “I was sure it was you.”
“Even back then, me and mum fought all the time. I wouldn’t dare risk having her unleash her special, sophisticated brand of crazy on me,” I scoff. Max has no reason to lie to me after all this time, so the more I think, the more my mind wanders, then it hits me. “Wasn’t Drew there that day? In the afternoon?”
Max nods, confused, and then breaks out into a smile. “That sneaky little bugger. That bastard owes us ice cream.”
“I’ll make sure he follows through,” I giggle. “You know how I feel about my desserts.”
*****
At just after eight, the doorbell rings. I jog through the living room and swing it open, smiling widely when I see Sam and Nash. Sam lets out a deep belly laugh and sweeps me into his arms.
