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We all get together several times a month for dinner in various capacities. Sometimes, we eat at one of the local diners; others, we meet at my parents’ house. Mom’s cooking is always the best.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, popping a piece of celery from the cutting board into my mouth.
“I’m going to chop your fingers off if you do that again. Do you know how hard this is?” My youngest sister waves the knife at me. Brontë is standing at the island, knife in one hand, baby in the other.
“At least give me that baby.” Brontë happily hands me my nephew. Brontë and her husband, Rand, made the most adorable baby I ever remember seeing. I’m not a bit partial. I blow bubbles on his stomach before settling him on my hip. “What did baby Keats do today?”
Because it wasn’t bad enough growing up with the name Brontë, my sister had to saddle her son with the name Keats. I roll my eyes involuntarily thinking about it.
“I saw that,” Brontë snarls.
“Guess what rumor I heard?” Austen rings out, entering the kitchen. Her fiancé, Reed, follows close behind with a grin on his face.
Reed was one of my best friends through high school. With his surfer good looks, I would have given my teeth to date him. But he only had eyes for my little sister.
“I heard a certain someone was seen getting out of the new deputy’s car.” Why does everyone always sing when they have gossip to impart? Is it an attempt to make it less cringe-worthy?
“Who?” Brontë asks as if the fate of the world rests on the answer. This house never lacks for drama when my sisters are in it.
“This person,” Austen sings, pointing at me.
“Oh, my god, he is so hot!” Brontë twitters.
“Hey!” Rand chooses that moment to wander into the kitchen to grab him and Dad another beer.
“Good thing you put a ring on it, babe,” she says, giving him a peck on the cheek. With a lazy grin, he disappears back into the family room with Reed trailing behind.
“I also heard they were seen locked in an embrace under the water tower.” Austen wiggles her eyebrows.
“By whom? Who the hell was there?” Crap, that was the wrong thing to say. It’s important to never admit to anything in front of those two. They might both be adults now, but that doesn’t mean they act like it.
“Busted!” my sisters both exclaim together.
“What’s his name?” Brontë asks.
“Officer Steele.” They both stare at me, waiting for more. Finally, I roll my eyes. “Owen.”
“Ooo, Owen,” they tease. Such idiots.
“Oh, my god, how old are y’all?” I grouse.
“Girls, leave your sister alone,” Mom says, pulling a pie out of the oven. “I can’t believe I still have to say that.”
“Hey, we’re just returning the favor. I believe Eliot’s advice to me when I was having my mental breakdown over Reed was ‘Maybe you should find out what else that tongue can do’ or something like that,” Austen replies. It’s true; I did say that.
“Yeah, and I was told it wasn’t like I could get any more pregnant. I might as well ride him like there’s no tomorrow,” Brontë added.
I said that too. I’m just a fountain of good advice.
“And you both did,” I say. “Because you’re both dirty hoes.”
“George Eliot Caraway!” Mom threatens. “No wonder the men hide in the other room.”
“They started it.” I stick my tongue out at my sisters and receive matching grins in response.
To an outsider, we might appear to be at odds with each other. But that’s the farthest thing from the truth. I adore them both. I have since they came home from the hospital. There isn’t a thing we won’t do for one another.
I fought hard to drag both of my sisters, kicking and screaming, toward their happily-ever-afters. I believe in happy endings, even if I’ve never found mine.
