“No.” Bea wraps her hand around mine, squeezing tight. “I promise you, we didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“I believe you. Besides, why would you? He’s always been nice to you and Jules, so why would you assume the worst in him when he’s only ever shown you his best? Same with Mom and Dad—he’s like the son they never had. In their eyes, Christopher can do no wrong.”
Bea wrinkles her nose. “I mean, they clearly weren’t thrilled with how he spoke to you on Thanksgiving. Mom made him not only scrub but put away an obscene pile of dishes on Thanksgiving. Then, after you left, he took care of Dad’s nightly haul of food scraps to the compost bin and Puck’s litter.”
And after those couple of measly tasks, I’m sure Mom and Dad have already forgiven and forgotten.
Struggling to read my silence, she says, “I’ve just made things worse, haven’t I?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay.”
“You can tell me if it’s not okay. I know you’re protective of me, KitKat—you always have been, even though you’re my little sister. When Jules was being a social butterfly and people took their shots while my twin was gone, you came in swinging.”
I smile faintly. “I do have pretty strong Big Sis Energy.”
“You do.” Her eyes search mine, before they dance down to where she holds my hand. “But I don’t need your protection anymore.”
My heart twists. Another way things have changed. Another way I’m not needed. I nod. “Okay.”
Staring down at my hand, Bea takes a deep breath, then meets my eyes long enough to say, “Let me be big sister for once and take care of you. Let’s stop talking about Christopher and enjoy Sister Day.”
“Sister Day?”
She gives my hand a firm squeeze, then releases it. “Sister Day.”
I shift on the sofa, nervous. Unless Sister Day consists solely of sitting on our asses, eating these doughnuts, whatever we do is going to cost money I don’t have.
I can use the credit card, I guess. And then I’ll make myself double down on gig hunting tomorrow, send out emails to photographer contacts in the city and put out feelers to see if any of them need help getting caught up with editing their photos.
“Don’t worry,” Bea says, misinterpreting the unease I’m sure I’m broadcasting on my face. “We’ll keep it low-key. How about we hit up a couple of those vintage shops you love, grab some street food, then come home, get into jammies, and watch a foreign film. They always make you cry while you pretend not to cry and put me to sleep; I could use a nap.”
I wallop her with one of the fifty-five ridiculous throw pillows on this sofa. “I do not cry. My eyes may mist up sometimes, but only because of this city’s dry-ass air.”
“Sure, KitKat.” Bea dodges another pillow lobbed her way.
Just as she pops the last of her doughnut in her mouth, Bea’s phone dings and she scoops it up. A smile I’ve only seen in the past few days brightens her face.
“Jamie?” I ask, leaning back on the sofa and biting into a new doughnut.
She nods, smiling as she types back.
“You don’t want to spend the day with him?”
Bea frowns my way and sets down her phone. “One, I was with him the past two days nonstop. Two, he’s working today, then he has plans with a friend this evening.”
“Anybody worth introducing your sister to?”
Not that I’d have the first idea what to do with them, even if they were. It’s not a high-speed highway for me, the road between meeting someone I find compelling and wanting them sexually. Since realizing attraction seems to work differently for me and trying to be open about that with people I thought I might be into, I’ve been met with impatience, dismissal, frustration, and ignorance. I got fed up. I stopped trying, stayed busy with work, exhausted myself, ignoring that quiet ache inside me that wished someone would understand how I worked and want me as I was.
Bea grimaces.
“What?” I poke her gently. “You don’t like this friend of his?”
She shakes her head. “No. I like him.”
“Then what is it?”
She lets out a weird half laugh, half choke. “Can I plead the Fifth?”
“Oh, come on. You’re not betraying Jamie by just talking about someone besides him.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” Groaning, she digs around the doughnut bag, unearths a powdered sugar doughnut hole and pops it in her mouth, then says around her bite, “It’s Christopher.”
My jaw drops. “Jamie is friends with that Neanderthal?”
“Since we started dating. They get along really well.”
I raise my coffee mug, my voice solemn. “To another brave soul, lost.”
She snorts a laugh and smiles. “No more talking about Jamie. Or Christopher. Today is Sister Day. Only us. Got it?”
I smile back. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
? FOUR ?
Christopher
Fiona’s is one of my favorite pubs, so when Jamie suggested we meet there after work, I was more than happy to say yes.
As I stroll in, Fee’s familiar sounds and scents—the soccer game on TV and the Irish grandpas who sit at the bar swearing at its screen, cold foamy beer and crisp fried food—greet me like an old friend.
Jamie half stands from his seat at a booth along the wall and raises a long arm in greeting. I weave through the tables toward him, and we lean in to clasp hands, then offer each other a brisk, backslapping hug.
At six two, I’m used to being the tallest person in a social setting, stooping and bending when I greet people, but not with Jamie, who’s six four, his height emphasized by a lean runner’s build. We pull apart and drop across from each other at the booth, which is a little tight for two people our height, but we make it work, stretching our legs in opposite directions and opening our menus.
“Let’s see what there is,” he says, before clearing his throat. Twice. I haven’t known him long, but I’ve learned it’s something he does when uncomfortable or nervous.
I lower my menu, looking at him carefully. Jamie stares with deep concentration at his menu.
“Jamie.”
“Hmm?”
“Those are the desserts.”
He drops his menu like it’s burning, then snatches it back up. “Perhaps I’m craving something sweet.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like sweets. Something about how they’re hard on the endocrine system.”
“Well.” Another throat clear. “They are. But I’m loosening up on that a little.”
“Wonder under whose influence.”
Bea has the biggest sweet tooth of anyone I’ve ever met. Jamie’s faint blush as he grins and flips the page of his menu confirms my theory.
“First time here?” I ask him.
“Hmm?” He glances up quickly. “Oh. Yes. It is.”
My gaze slides down the list of familiar appetizers. “The Reuben nachos are great if you haven’t—”
“Well, look who it is!” As if he’s materialized from thin air, Bill Wilmot stands beside our booth, smiling widely. Salt-and-pepper hair, deep blue eyes magnified slightly by his wire-rim glasses, he squeezes my shoulder affectionately. “Fancy seeing you here!”
Jamie drops his menu, eyebrows raised. “Bill! What a surprise! Say, why don’t you join us?”
My gaze dances between them. I have never met two more earnest men than Bill Wilmot and Jamie Westenberg. They’re up to something, and they’re doing a terrible job of hiding it.
Slowly, I close my menu, observing Bill slide into Jamie’s side of the booth. Bill’s not short himself, so the sight of these two men over six feet crammed together is almost comical.
“What brings you here?” I ask Bill, who immediately accepts the menu Jamie’s offered him.
“Little of this, little of that.” Bill sniffs, dropping his chin so he can read the menu through the right part of his glasses. “Maureen told Fee she’d send in some flowers for the wake they’ll be having here tomorrow, and I was in the mood for shepherd’s pie, so I brought in the flowers for her, ordered carryout, and here we are.”
“Which means you’re searching the menu, why?”