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He lifts her into a football hold and says, “This little peanut is Taffy. She’s my youngest.” He wipes at her mouth. “And she already got into Mimi’s fudge. Come on. I’ll introduce you around.”
Aidan closes the door to the Hutton’s modest New England saltbox that still smells exactly how I remember: cinnamon potpourri, Downy fabric softener, and apple-scented dish soap. It’s a cute house, nothing fancy, nothing like the monstrosity across the street—my old house, a modern cliffside extravaganza with million-dollar views. It hasn’t changed; it’s just as cold and foreboding as usual. I could hardly bring myself to look at it as I pulled into the cul-de-sac.
But here, it’s all warmth and love, like a Norman Rockwell painting. One step into the kitchen, which is brimming with delicious smells and peopled, and I already feel more at home than I ever did at any of my stiff, sedate family get-togethers. A collective cheer rises up as I show my face, and everyone starts to hug me. Can’t remember the last time I received such a warm welcome and it almost makes me emotional, but I tamp that shit down.
Aidan introduces a small, pretty girl with a nose ring and bright red hair in a pixie cut. “This is Leah, my wife.”
I expect a handshake but I get a tight hug from her, too. “I’ve heard so much about you, and all of your childhood escapades,” she says with a grin, and then they introduce Hudson and Hollis, their five-year-old twins. “These two are already taking after their dad and uncle.”
“Spitting image,” Aidan says with a chuckle. “They just need an Alec, and they’d be the fearsome three.”
I laugh, remembering. That was what their parents used to call us.
“Looks like you guys have to have your hands full,” I say, astounded, as a woman with long, dark hair shakes my hand. She’s gorgeous, about a thousand steps up from Cooper, looks-wise, and so pregnant she looks like she’s about to burst.
“This is Abby, my wife-to-be,” Cooper says, trying to grab a little dark-haired boy who races after the other kids. The kid just shakes him off and careens out of the room. “And Flash Gordon over there was Silas. My oldest.”
“Nice to meet you, Abby.” I’m shell-shocked by the greetings, knowing I won’t remember the names, but happy to be here all the same.
It’s so surreal, seeing the guys I grew up with now fathers themselves. Makes me wonder what the hell I’ve been up to. I feel like I’m still in the minor leagues, in comparison, waiting to get called up.
As Mrs. Hutton slips her arm around my lower back and gives me a side hug that tells me she’s glad I’m here, I look around.
“Now, where’s our girl?” she asks.
Oh, shit. “She’s not here already?”
Stassi’s mother shakes her head. “Oh, no. What happened? I thought she was riding with you?”
“I knocked on her door. She never answered. I assumed that wires got crossed and she didn’t get the message. I didn’t want to be late, so …”
Mrs. Hutton clucks her tongue and pulls out her phone. “I’ll text her.”
“Maybe she’s in another one of her moods,” Cooper says. He and Aidan exchange worrisome looks. “When was the last time you talked to her?”
“We texted the other day,” Aidan says. “She seemed … herself?”
Before Mrs. Hutton can finish dialing on her cell, I catch a brief glimpse of blonde hair through the shades of the front bay window. A moment later, the front door cracks open behind me, and there is Stassi, peering in cautiously, as if she’s about to navigate a minefield.
All attention shifts to her.
“Anastasia!” her mom cries. “Oh, thank goodness. Was just about to call you.”
“You made it, Stass.” Aidan, who is closest to her, says, leaning over to kiss her head the way he used to when she was a knobby-kneed kid and the perpetual baby of the family. Only he quickly pulls away, grimacing as if she smells bad. “Did you burn your clothes or something?”
We’re not all dressed in our Sunday best, but we made an effort. Naturally, the occasion called for it. Stassi, though? She looks as if she intentionally dressed down, as if she’s trying to look like shit, with smudged make-up, a messy ponytail, and stained sweats. She even has some unidentified black stuff smeared on the front of her t-shirt.
“Thought Mom said you were going to make dessert,” Cooper says as she deposits a box from Shaw’s bakery department on the nearest counter. “Not buy it.”
If looks could kill, the eye daggers Stassi shoots her brother would’ve been a direct hit. His fiancée elbows him and attempts to smooth things over, “Well, I love whoopie pies no matter where they come from.”
Mrs. Hutton pulls Stassi into her arms. “Oh, honey, you look tired. Did you have a late shift last night?”
