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Harper giggles, while mom covers her eyes with her hand.
“The gift!” Emma hollers, handing the bag to my sister.
Carefully, as if she were afraid of something to jump out at her, she pulls out layers of tissue paper before she retrieves a multicolor blanket. Latham takes it, and together, they stand up and unfold the large blanket. Several gasps echo throughout the room, and not necessarily from our table.
“I learned how to crochet this past summer,” Emma boasts, clapping her hands.
“Are those…” Jensen starts, but suddenly stops. His hand goes to his mouth as he tries to hid his laugh.
“What is that?” Marissa asks, leaning forward to get a better view of the intricate detail of the blanket.
“Holy shitballs, Sammy. That’s a sex blanket,” Freedom says as she places her hand on my forearm, her nails biting my flesh through my button-down. I adjust my tie to keep from reaching for her fingers.
I don’t look at my arm, however. My eyes are glued to the train wreck of a wedding gift because there, delicately crocheted in bold colored yarn is a couple engaging in sexual acts in just about every position known to man. Dozens of positions, some I’ve never even heard of before.
“What in the world is that thing?” Mom asks, her cheeks pink as she looks at her brother and sister-in-law.
“It’s a fertility blanket. It’ll help get the juices flowing and baby gods buzzing,” Emma insists, proudly waving her hand in front of the blanket like Vanna White.
Harper’s ears turn a lovely shade of red, and I have to look away. While I’m well aware my sisters and their significant others are…adults, and engage in…adult things, I can think of a dozen things I’d rather be doing right now than thinking about my sisters and…that. Root canal with no pain meds. Run over my foot with a semi. Rip my arm off and beat myself to death with it. All things I’d rather do than allow a sexual thought featuring one of my siblings to enter my brain.
“Do you see that reverse cowgirl, Sammy? That’s amazing needlework,” Freedom coos, as if this obnoxious blanket is the greatest thing since sliced bread.
“Are you serious?”
She turns those dark eyes my way. They’re dancing with humor and enthusiasm. “Definitely! Do you not understand how critical a good reverse cowgirl is, Sammy?”
“Very important!” Emma hollers, ensuring all eyes—every single pair in the restaurant—is on me.
“True, Samuel. There’s nothing like watching the bounce of a beautiful cowgirl.” This from my eighty-something-year-old uncle. Vomit burns my throat, and I’m one-hundred percent sure I’m going to have to give myself a head injury to rid the image his comment just conjured up. “That’s good stuff,” Orval replies, raising a hand in toast.
I’m starring in the Twilight Zone. That’s the only reasonable explanation as to why we’re discussing sex positions during brunch, mere hours before my sister’s wedding. It’s not real. I’m still in bed, sleeping off my hangover. I’m not surrounded by my family, by inappropriate conversations and gifts. I’m not stuck listening to my aunt and uncle overshare stories of their marriage. I’m not married.
But I am.
It’s all real.
Myreality.
