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Maybe from the pleasure of sitting beside Sebastian at my parents’ the past two hours, knees knocking beneath the table, eating dessert, sipping coffee (for him) and wine (for me). Maybe from the curious joy of seeing my mom pull Sebastian into another hug when we got here, then drag him into the kitchen, showing him all the gluten-free cookies we had, the kladdkaka, a rich flourless chocolate cake, she always has on hand for fika, which is naturally gluten-free, before she led him to the living room and showed him embarrassing photo after embarrassing photo of all the kids growing up, lingering on my pictures, until a wide, delighted smile lit up Sebastian’s face and he glanced my way, holding my eyes like he is now.
“How ya doing, Sigrid?”
“Fine, Sebastian—” I bite my lip, shutting my eyes.
He knocks my knee with his beneath the table. “What’s wrong?”
“I…” Opening my eyes, I meet his. “I called you by your full name. I’ve been calling you that for weeks, and…he calls you that.” I find his hand beneath the table and squeeze it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I would never have—”
“Ziggy.” Sebastian leans in, voice lowered, soft, silver eyes holding mine. “You calling me that, it pissed me the fuck off at first, but that lasted like five minutes. Then I realized I loved that you called me Sebastian. You…” He shrugs. “It was like you scratched it out, his voice, those memories of how he used to say it, just wrote right over it with this pretty, loopy scrawl that swallowed up that shitty scribble beneath it.” His gaze searches mine. “Remember, I told you I was okay with you calling me that. Don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?” I whisper. “Because, Seb, I’d never—”
“Sebastian,” he whispers back. “Call me what you’ve called me. Don’t change it. Don’t change it just ’cause I lost it in a treatment room and cried like a baby.”
“You didn’t cry like a baby.” I press a knuckle into his thigh. “You felt your feelings. It was good. Healthy. Natural.”
“Well, then don’t change what’s natural with us, what you’ve been doing, okay?”
I hold his eyes as his fingers find mine and tangle them. “Okay.”
“All right, kids.” Frankie stands slowly, yawning. “I’m wiped.”
“Home we go, Francesca.” Ren reaches behind his chair, where her cane sits propped on the wall, and sets it in front of her. “Love you, family.”
Frankie takes it and gives him a smile, before blowing us all a kiss. “Love you, hooligans. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight!” we call. “Love you!”
Mom stands from her chair as Dad stands, too, a little slow himself, following behind Ren and Frankie to see them off.
“C’mon, Lumberjack.” Willa drains the last sip of her wine. “We should get ourselves to bed, too. Early flight home tomorrow.”
Ryder nods, leaning forward, starting to collect dirty plates.
“Leave them, Ry.” Viggo stands, then takes the plates from him. “You two hit the hay and get some sleep. I got nowhere to be in the morning.”
“But you did all the baking,” I tell him.
“A couple batches of cookies. It was nothing—”
Sebastian stands, taking the plates from Viggo before my brother even registers what’s happened. Deftly stepping around me, Sebastian works his way down the table, fast and efficient, stacking plates, then scooping up wineglasses. I follow suit.
Viggo glares at Sebastian’s back as he takes his towering stack of dirty dishes into the kitchen, sets them carefully on the counter, then opens the dishwasher to load it up.
I lean across the table, wineglasses clutched in one hand, and poke my brother’s chest. “What are you scowling at him for? He’s just cleaning up the dishes.”
“Exactly,” he mutters, frowning as he gathers the last straggling coffee cups. “I don’t want to like him. But I think I’m gonna have to, if he’s truly that dedicated.”
“To the dishes?”
He reaches past me for the last cup and sighs heavily, frowning up at Sebastian. “Among other things.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What are you—”
“G’night, Ziggy.” Willa opens her arms to me.
I hug her back one-armed, clutching the wineglasses in my other, before Willa starts trundling up the stairs to Ryder’s old bedroom on a loud yawn.
