“Two?” I guess, playing dumb. “I don’t know, you look too tall for two.”
I can smell her sweet, sugary candy breath as she inspects my dangly earrings with interest. “I’m five!”
I tilt my head. “Hmm, I think you might be fibbing. And you know what happens to fibbers . . .” I warn in a mock-threatening tone, whipping my hand out from behind my back.
She shrieks. “Not the tickle monster!” She starts thrashing and wriggling, twisting out of my grasp, and I just barely manage to set her down before she takes off at a sprint. Sheesh, these toddlers are stronger than they look. I just got a better arm workout in two minutes than after an hour at Orangetheory.
I turn to Ella, patiently waiting her turn, and ruffle her hair. “How’s my favorite big sister? Ready for the party?”
“Yeah. I wish it was my birthday, though,” she says, gazing wistfully at my gift bags.
“Hmm. Does it have to be your birthday to receive a gift?”
Her eyes light up. “Did you bring me something?”
Pssh, did I bring her something. This ain’t my first aunt rodeo, darlin’. I learned long ago that if you bring gifts for one kid and not the other, you may as well be firing the opening shots of World War III.
“This one’s for you,” I tell her, handing her a glittery pink gift bag, and she beams. Thank God it’s so easy to buy children’s affection. “And these are hers. Maybe you can go put them on the gift table? But don’t let your sister tear into them yet, I want to watch her open them.” And watch Christine’s head explode when she sees what I got her: a set of “artist-quality” (read: permanent) markers, a toy bullhorn (with built-in siren function!), plus a few hideously tacky stuffed animals sure to make my clutter-phobic sister start twitching.
“We’re in here,” Christine calls out from the kitchen, and I Mission Impossible my way through the crepe paper maze crisscrossing the hallway until I make it to the kitchen, and hoo boy, does it look like a party store threw up in here. I greet Christine, who’s standing at the island ripping open boxes of Capri Sun while Greg empties bags of ice into a galvanized metal drink stand.
I stash my purse away, then spin in a circle, surveying the room. Talk about sensory overload. Streamers dangle from every available surface, while bunches of balloons float up from chair backs and doorknobs and litter the floor. A color-coded array of chips, candy, and desserts cram a crowded snack table set up in the corner. The only thing I can’t really make sense of is the . . . well, eclectic assortment of posters taped up all over the walls.
“So far I’m seeing unicorns, mermaids, flamingos, narwhals, and . . .” I squint. “Are those pirates?”
Christine dumps the Capri Suns out on the countertop, knocking over a stack of Dixie cups in the process. “Addie took some artistic license with the under-the-sea theme.”
Greg chortles. “What she means is that she took Addie to Party City at the end of a very long day and had lost her will to fight.”
“Under the sea, huh? I’m not sure that would have been my first guess . . . or second or third,” I say, picking up a skull and crossbones centerpiece and setting it down.
Christine blows some hair out of her eyes. “Just wait until you have kids and then talk to me about the weird shit you end up doing for them.”
“Yeah, well, no danger of that happening anytime soon,” I say wryly, then catch the two of them exchange a look out of the corner of my eye.
“How’s Gran?” Christine asks as I make myself comfortable on one of their counter stools.
“She’s fine. You know how she is, doesn’t want us fussing over her.” I grab a handful of gummy sharks from one of the candy dishes set out on the island and pretend not to notice her dirty look. “She sent a gift, which I just gave to Ella.”
“I put the girls in charge of filling the goody bags. I realize that means they’re probably eating more candy than is actually making it into the bags, but I just needed them out of my hair for a bit so I could get things set up.”
“I don’t think they were eating any,” I lie, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Anyway, here I am, reporting for duty early as requested. How can I help?”
“Greg?” Christine prompts, but he just grunts, too focused on his ice task to respond, apparently. “Greg,” she tries again, this time in a warning tone, and when he looks up they proceed to have an entirely nonverbal discussion consisting of laser stares, stern eyebrows, and aggressive head tilts.
I eye them warily. “Do you two need a minute? I can go check on the girls.” And definitely not sample any of the candy they’re hoarding.
“No, we do not need a minute.” She gives him a withering look, and I’ll say this for him, he holds up under pressure far better than I did growing up. Just one of her penetrating glares and I would have folded like a cheap suit.
Their standoff continues for another few seconds before she throws up her hands and turns to me. “So, slight confession: We asked you to come over early under false pretenses.”
“What does that mean?” I slide my eyes between the two of them, trying to decode their bizarre body language. “You don’t need help?”
“Actually, I do need help,” she says, pushing a stack of paper in front of me and passing me a pair of scissors. “Will you start cutting those out? It’s for their craft.”
“Don’t give her scissors,” Greg hisses.
I exhale loudly and toss the scissors down. “Alright, enough. You guys are being weird, even for you. What’s going on?”
Christine narrows a pointed look at her husband. “Greg has something he wants to tell you.”
I swivel my head his direction and raise my eyebrows. “Well? Spit it out.”
He presses his lips together and looks heavenward before meeting my eyes again. “It was me.”
I look from him to Christine and back again. “What was you?”
He blows out a breath. “I was the one who blew your cover with Jack. I told him about your story.”
A heavy silence descends on the kitchen, and I blink at him while he rushes to explain. “I swear I didn’t mean to! We were at the baseball game and it just sort of slipped out. And then I tried to backtrack but it just made it worse, and he was asking me all these questions and I couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough and it all just . . . came out.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, looking tortured. “I feel terrible about it, Cass. I can’t believe how badly I screwed things up for you. Everything that happened is my fault, and I want you to know I will never forgive myself.”
I listen silently, keeping my face carefully neutral. “I didn’t realize you even knew about the story,” I tell him, sliding my gaze to Christine.
Now it’s her turn to look guilty. “I’m sorry. I ended up telling him later, after our double date. He kept making comments about how weird you were at that dinner and he wouldn’t let it go, so I finally just filled him in. Which was obviously my mistake.” She aims a sharp glare Greg’s way and he hangs his head in shame.