“Shit! I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes and leaned his ass against the dryer. “Was I supposed to pick you up at the airport?”
“Sort of.” She arched an eyebrow, then sent him the it’s-okay-you’re-my-brother look.
“I’m really sorry.” He meant it, too. He should have remembered. “Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I tried. You didn’t answer. I was worried sick until I called your office and spoke with some guy named Quarles. He said you were working some case.”
He yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and realized it was completely out of juice. “Crap. I forgot to charge it.”
“You still haven’t caught the guy, have you?”
“Not yet. But we’ve got a few leads.” Brit vaguely recalled telling his sister about Keith. Probably the same conversation in which she’d told him about coming down. Susan had met Keith once on one of her trips into town.
She took a step back and did her usual big sister head-to-toe inventory. Up, down. Sometimes he still expected her to check behind his ears and give his fingernails a good inspection. In many ways, Susan had been more of a mother to him than his own mother. And considering how protective he’d been of her, he supposed he’d been a little like a father to her.
She cocked her head and tapped a finger to her lips. “You look like day-old crap with a hangover.”
“You’re right.” He smiled. “Casual greetings have gone to hell in a hand basket.”
She grinned, picked up the sweater and hung it up on a hook on the wall. “Whose sweater were you sniffing?”
“Nobody important.” He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. The only thing inside was some milk.
“I knew that already.” Her tennis shoes squeaked on the tile floor as she entered the room.
“Knew what?” He retrieved the milk, opened it, and gave it a sniff test. The sour smell filled his nose. But it was the taste of the sour milk that had him spitting in the sink. He screwed on the top and shoved the container back in the fridge.
His sister rolled her eyes at something. “I knew she wasn’t important. Relationships are never important to you. You’re a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy.”
“Spare me the talk.” He settled for a glass of water. “I swear I haven’t broken a woman’s heart in about fifteen minutes.” Truth was, he hadn’t broken any hearts in years. Since the disastrous relationship a few years ago, he’d been careful not to get involved with anyone who wanted to get involved.
His sister twisted her long braid, went to the fridge, and pulled out the milk, checked the date and then rolled her eyes again. “Why would you put it back in the fridge?”
“Because that’s where milk goes.” He shrugged.
Making a face, she poured the milk down the sink.
When she was done, she tossed the carton into the overflowing trash can then looked back at him. “We’re letting them do it to us, you know.”
“Letting who do what to us?” He drank his water.
“Mom and Dad. We’re letting how they lived their lives affect how we live our lives. We’re projecting their mistakes onto ourselves.”
“You’ve been watching too much Oprah.” He sat down.
“No. I’m actually seeing my own therapist. Besides, Oprah’s off the air, I’m into Dr. Phil now.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with us.”
“Then why haven’t either of us ever married?”
“Because we’re smarter than the average Joe.” He toasted her with his empty glass. “How long are you down for?”
“Five days.” She sank into a kitchen chair. “Do you want me to stay with Mom?”
“I don’t hate you that much.” He grinned.
“Thanks.” She leaned back in her chair. “You remembered Saturday, right? I’m having Mom’s sixtieth birthday party. You said you’d come. You have to come.”
“Saturday.” He pushed a hand through his hair and let his eyes close for just a second as he recalled agreeing to this, too. “Yeah. Saturday.”
“You really look tired.” Her eyes softened. “Too tired.”
“I’m fine,” he lied again. “And I have to be at work at eleven.”
“Then go to bed.” Standing, she put a hand on his shoulder. “I promised Mom I’d go to dinner with her.” Susan kissed his cheek. “Have you talked to her lately?”
Brit nodded. “Yeah, three or four weeks ago.” He’d screwed up and forgotten to check caller ID and was forced to talk to her for a minute.
“You should talk to her and see her more often.” Susan went to his pantry, opened it, and shook her head. “Are you even eating?”
“See her more? I’m not a masochist. Besides, she has Fred.”
“Frank,” Susan said. “Fred was her last husband.”
“She divorced Fred? Really?” he asked. “Wait. Wasn’t he the one she said was her soul mate? Or was that Floyd? What is it with her and men with names that start with an f?”