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My sister, Emily, zones in on me within seconds of being at the party, and I contemplate launching myself into the bushes.
Her kid Olive plows into my legs. She’s eight and the only child I can tolerate. She trolls her mother. Literally me in a small person’s body.
My sister walks over, tightening Olive’s ponytail. Olive swats her mother’s hand away.
“Hi, Uncle Jackson. It’s been sooo long,” she says, flapping her arms. She also has a flair of drama. Just like her mother. She’s a cute little stinker, at least.
“What is up, Martini?” I pick her up by the armpits so she’s face-to-face with me. She giggles.
“I wish you all would stop calling her that,” Emily grumbles. Cameron started it and it stuck, especially after we found out how much it pisses Emily off.
“Nothing much, Uncle Jackson. Look at my shirt.”
I put her down so she can show me. It’s a cartoon raccoon with the words “Cute but Trashy.”
“I love it, Martini.” I palm her head like a basketball, and she giggles.
My sister is a single mom and doing a phenomenal job, but the raccoon fixation is getting out of hand.
First it was a pair of raccoons they named Thelma and Louise who ate the cat food for the cat my sister does not have. Then, it was a raccoon-themed birthday party, and then, Olive let in a raccoon who got into the grain at the brewery. Now, we have “raccoon loss” as a line item on our loss report.
“How’s my little raccoon?” my brother Cam asks, picking up Olive and throwing her on his shoulder. More giggling. Cameron’s smile drops when he sees me. “Nice of you to join us, Jackson. Are you already counting down the minutes?”
“I’ve started the timer.” I flash him my phone. I’m going to be here a half hour, tops. I’ll make sure my mother and father see me, make a round with my scowl, then retreat back to my space and dread the next event in three weeks.
“Hi, Jackson,” that voice that haunts my nightmares says behind me.
When I turn, I can’t help scanning Shiloh, head to toe. Her lavender crop top ends at her ribcage, showing a hint of taut stomach from the side. She’s wearing those braids again. I look away. Her adorableness does something to me, and I hate it.
“Who is this beautiful and obviously very smart lady?” Shiloh rests her hands on her hips, and it shifts her overalls, so I see more of her smooth stomach. My jaw clenches involuntarily.
“Olive Jean Finch.” Olive gives a serious handshake, and Shiloh smiles widely.
“What a firm handshake! My name is Shiloh Louise Abbott.”
“Shiloh, like the dog in that book?” my niece asks.
“Yes, the very one,” Shiloh says.
“Louise. That’s a nice middle name.”
“Thank you. Louise was my grandmother’s name.”
Louise.My face feels tingly and numb, all at once. My breath is shallow, so I try to get a deep one, but it’s not working.
“I need a beer,” I mutter. I walk to the cooler, and I feel a person next to me. I’m racing toward my people limit for today, and this might put me over the edge.
“Jackson,” Shiloh says behind me. Why is she bugging me? I stand up straight, cracking the beer. I take a long swig, the hops scratching the back of my throat. I turn around with a scowl.
“Everything okay?” Shiloh asks.
“Fine.” I take another drink of beer. “Do you want a drink?”
“Sure, I’ll take a soda.”
“No beer?”
“I don’t drink.”
