Dad rolls his eyes, puts an arm around me, and directs me to the back porch. “She can’t be upset with anyone but herself. I thought it might teach her a lesson. Those firemen gave her quite the lecture. But you know your mama. She’s angling for a new sink.”
“I bet she is. And, for the record, the jeans look nice.”
“They chafe something awful, but there’s coconut oil for that. Learned that trick on something called Pin-Interest.”
I snort. “Pinterest, Dad.”
“That’s what I said. And anyway,” he says, leaning close and chuckling near my ear. “Your mama says these really showcase my butt.”
I shove him off, jogging up the steps to the porch. “Gross! TMI, Dad!”
He’s laughing and waves me off. “I’ll get your bag from the car and change your oil. Don’t let anyone tell you that the empty nest years aren’t full of fun!” he calls, still laughing.
Ew.
Before I make it through the screen door, it flies open and my nephews do their best to tackle me.
“Whoa there, beasts! Easy on your aunt.”
“Why are you referring to yourself in the third person?” Jace asks. I ruffle his blond hair, realizing as I do that he’s gotten taller.
“When did you learn what the third person is?” I ask him.
“From Tiktok,” he says.
It’s one thing for my dad to be on Pinterest, but my eight-year-old nephew and Tiktok? Nope.
“I’ll have to talk to your daddy about that. It’s a security risk.”
It’s also a risk for him to learn about things like twerking.
He shrugs, running off toward the direction my dad disappeared to. Both my nephews have my brother’s big brain, but Jace’s interests run toward all things mechanical. If Dad doesn’t watch him, he’ll probably rewire my car, switching the cruise control with the turn signals or something.
Meanwhile, Joey, the younger, sweeter, quieter one, is still clinging to my knees. I bend down until I can look up into his sweet cheeks, still plump even though he’s now six.
“Hey, bud! What's happening?”
He blinks at me with lashes most women would stab someone with a stiletto to have.
“My new sister’s coming soon.”
“I know. Baby Addie.” The one lucky child to escape the curse of J names. “Are you going to take good care of your sister?”
He nods, all serious. “I already promised Dad I’d plug his nose when he changes her poops.”
I laugh. “You know what? Your daddy probably needs to get used to the smell, work up a tolerance. Maybe when he’s changing poops, you could help by fetching him a throw-up bowl instead?”
“Very funny, squirt.” Jason glares as he joins us on the porch. “I can’t help my gag reflex. It’s a physiological response.”
“And I can’t help finding it amusing.” I give Joey another look. “You’ll remember what I said?”
“Barf bucket.”
I wink. “Good boy. Now, go make sure your big brother isn’t hot-wiring my car.”
When I stand again, Jason wraps me up in a hug, lifting me right off my feet. I could get used to all this hugging. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed my family. Maybe it’s time to consider moving home. My heart constricts at the thought of leaving Austin, leaving my friends.
I try not to think about Zane, but my brain keeps looping right back to him like one of those annoying pop-up windows you can’t close. I’m hoping this trip home can be my factory reset. I need some unconditional support and some space to think.
Oh, and a job. I need one of those too.
“What’s this I hear about you falling in love with a guy who got you fired?”
“Mama’s got a big mouth. That’s not …” I start to say, then stop. “Actually, that’s pretty accurate. And, for the record, it sucks. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Jason sets me gently back down and ushers me inside the house. “I could have told you that.”
“I could have told myself that,” I mutter.
“Does this mean you’re moving to Katy and coming to work for me?”
The offer sounds more tempting now than it ever has. And yet, it still doesn’t feel right. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.
I should be with Zane.
Abby. Thankfully, my internal Agent Gibbs shows up with a warning tone. We’ve been over this. No Zane.
“Abs?” Jason gives me a little shake.
“Sorry. Uh … I’m still considering my options.”
Mom comes tearing out from the direction of the laundry room with arms outstretched, wrapping me in her comfort and warmth. “Baby girl!”
“Mama! Go easy on the ribs. I’d like to keep them all intact, please.”
She eases up, then pulls back to inspect me, just like Daddy did. “Blue hair, huh? I prefer pink.”
“You should try pink. I think it would look great on you.”
Mom scoffs. “I’ve missed the window. Colorful hair either needs to come with youth or old age.”
“Just be sure to let me know when I’m close to the cutoff age. I’ve got to follow all those conventions of society and all that.”
Jason laughs and we both sit down at stools along the kitchen island. He pulls out his laptop, probably working on one of his new games. I try to check the sink for scorch marks but can’t see them from this angle. When she sees me looking and smiling, Mom gives me what she likes to call the hairy eyeball.
“I like Daddy’s new jeans,” I say. “Heard a funny story about how you convinced him to wear them.”
“That’s part of marriage. Learning how to get things done.” She winks. “Now, come help me shuck this corn.”
There’s something about standing hip to hip with my mama in the kitchen where I grew up, pulling the husks off corn that warms me from the inside out. But then it warms me too much as I remember the night I spent with Zane in his house, helping him decorate.
I imagined nights like this, a future where he and I would cook dinner, maybe having a food fight or two. Years down the road, maybe I’d be lighting his suit on fire in the kitchen sink.
Except I’m not going to get that chance.
When Mama’s arms come around me, the sobs really hit. I barely register the sound of the door closing as Jason leaves us.
“That boy has an aversion to tears,” Mama says.
“And dirty diapers.”
Mama laughs, squeezing me tighter and resting her head on my shoulder. “You really fell hard this time, didn’t you?”
“I did. I can’t stop thinking about him.”
I place my hands on the edge of the sink, looking down at all the corn husks, and the silky strands that are caught under my nails.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be trying to stop.”
I’m pondering her words, still staring down at the corn husks and finally seeing some of the burn marks when Dad joins us in the kitchen.
“Sorry to interrupt your Hallmark moment,” he says, making me laugh.
I pat Mama’s hands and she releases me with a smile.
“We’re all good,” I say. It’s not true, but for the first time since yesterday morning, I don’t want to punch someone in the throat or bury myself in a carton of Blue Bell ice cream.
Dad holds up a crumpled-up white paper bag. “Hope no one intended to eat those kolaches you brought,” he says. “Those boys are like piranhas.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zane
It’s my luck that the monthly dinner with Dad and Zoey falls on a week where I’d like to hide out and avoid my sister. She’s probably already got a hit out on me. Especially since I’ve been avoiding her calls and not reading her texts. She’s waiting for me when I pull up to Dad’s house, hands already in the lecture position on her hips.
“So, you’re not dead?” Zoey asks in a bratty voice.
“Clearly not.”
“Just ignoring me.”
“I’d like to
think of it as avoiding you,” I tell her, walking right on past toward the house.
“Is there a difference?”
“Not really. Avoiding just sounds a little more mature than ignoring.”
“Both of them not only sound immature but are immature.”
I don’t bother ringing the bell but use my key to walk right inside. I can smell garlic and onions. Dad became quite the cook recently, taking classes and watching on YouTube. I’m pretty sure that in the few years after Mom died, he existed on beef jerky and mixed nuts.
“Hey, Dad.” I pat him on the shoulder, because he’s not big on hugs.
He nods, meeting my eyes with his matching blues. “Zane. Glad you could make it.”
That’s his standard greeting, though I always make it. I haven’t missed a family dinner since we started having them, even with all the startup craziness.
Zoey goes up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Hey, Daddy. Smells good.”
“Me or the stir-fry?” he deadpans.
“Are you making jokes now?” I ask. “Cooking and making jokes might indicate a midlife crisis.”
“What’s next?” Zoey asks, plucking a mushroom right out of the pan. “Long hair and a tattoo?”
Dad shoos her away with the spoon. “You’ll burn your fingers. I’m much past midlife, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Picturing Dad with anything but close-cropped brown hair is laughable. He looks ready to go back into the service at a moment’s notice, other than the grays taking over. I grab the plates and Zoey gets the silverware. We haven’t changed up our chores since we were kids, and there’s a comfort in it.
Until Zoey has to open her mouth, that is.
“Have you talked to Abby?”
“I’ve left her voicemails. I’ve texted. She’s closing me out.”
Zoey looks at me with half-lowered lids. “That’s all? I expected you to show up at the house.”
“If she doesn’t want to answer her phone, why would I think she wants to see me? She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“What did you do to Abby?” Dad asks, frowning.
I throw my hands up. “Is this how it’s going to be? Both of you ganging up on me?”
“Usually it’s both of you ganging up on me,” Zoey says. “You’re way overdue, little brother.”
I turn to Dad, considering my answer. What did I do to Abby? On paper, not much. I didn’t cheat on her or insult her or take her for granted. But in many ways, what I did was worse.
I didn’t trust her enough. I didn’t respect her enough. I didn’t show her how much I value her.
I failed her.
“I’ll take this one, since Zane’s pleading the fifth,” Zoey says, holding up a hand when I start to protest. “First, he tried to get her to change her looks to impress clients. Then, he accused her of some kind of bad tech practices that I don’t understand and got her fired.”
“I didn’t—” I start to say, but Zoey cuts me off again.
“Oh, and all this while he was also dating her.”
Dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “You and Abby?”
I sigh, sitting down at the table. “Not now, I guess. It’s a moot point since she won’t talk to me.”
Zoey smacks me on the back of the head. “Idiot,” she mutters. I shove her hand away, and suddenly, we’re ten, arguing over the remote control or who gets to sit in the most comfortable chair.
“I didn’t raise you to give up so easily,” Dad says. “Go get your girl.”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You’d approve of me and Abby?”
“What’s not to approve of?” he asks, one eyebrow lifted. Long before The Rock, Dad had been giving us this look. “She’s your sister’s best friend and a great girl. Smart. Fiery.”
“Like I said,” Zoey says, poking me, “you’re an idiot.”
I manage to steer the conversation away from me or Abby during dinner, but my thoughts are definitely distracted, thinking about her. Wondering where she is, if she’s found a job, how she’s feeling. If she would ever consider forgiving me.
While Zoey and I wash dishes, Dad retires to the TV room with his crossword and whatever true crime documentary he’s watching now. Zoey’s uncharacteristic silence is like the ocean pulling back before a tsunami. It’s unnatural and should serve as a warning to run for high ground.
Maybe I’m a sucker, or maybe I think that I deserve whatever she’s going to dish out, because I’m not running or trying to climb one of the oak trees out back. When we’ve only got one sauce pan left to wash and dry, I nudge her shoulder with mine.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“When am I getting the lecture or whatever?”
Zoey takes the pan from me and dries. I can almost hear her thoughts banging around in her head. She sets the pan down and glances toward the TV room.
“Let’s go out back,” she says in a quieter voice.
I follow her out to the backyard, where Zoey set up strings of lights over Dad’s small patio last year at Christmas. We sit down in the two Adirondack chairs, which were my gift.
“Think he ever sits out here?” Zoey asks.
“Doubtful.”
It’s a nice night, somehow with no mosquitos. After a few minutes with just us and the night sounds, Zoey says, “I know Abby mentioned that she was bullied in high school.”
“Yep.” The thought of that gets me just as hot as it did when she told me. I feel like a pan of boiling water with the lid on, all the steam trapped inside with nowhere to go.
“This is her story to tell, and ordinarily, I wouldn’t be butting in. But there are some things you need to know, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t get to tell you.”
“Well, spit it out, then.”
“Calm down, cowboy.”
Zoey shifts, swinging her legs over the side of the chair so she can face me. I angle my chair toward her, wishing she’d hurry it up.
“Abby was bullied off and on throughout middle and high school. Typical jock-versus-nerd type stuff. Her parents complained, but the school didn’t do anything. In high school a few of the popular girls told Abby that some guy was interested in her. They said they wanted to give her a makeover to help her win him over, promising that she just needed to make a few changes.”
I don’t like where this is going, and not just because there’s another guy being mentioned. Dread coils in my stomach.
“As I’m sure you’ve surmised, they didn’t give her a makeover. What they gave her was chemical burns on her scalp. They plucked off her eyebrows completely.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. Just hearing this, imagining it, makes me want to punch something. Or someone.
Zoey touches my arm briefly, then continues. “She was humiliated. Thankfully, not permanently injured, though they did have to cut off most of her hair because it was so damaged. She finished up high school virtually, doing online classes.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It is.” Zoey pauses. “In case you didn’t connect the dots, genius, Abby tends to be a little touchy on the idea of makeovers. And of people not accepting her as is. Which is exactly what you did when you asked her to change for the investors.”
I hadn’t connected the dots. But I do now, and the realization is swift and painful. I lean forward in my chair, letting my head hang between my knees. I feel like I’m trying to breathe underwater. My lungs burn and there’s no air.
I’m playing back over my texts to Abby, my apology at the restaurant, which seems so small now. If I thought I’d messed up before, the gravity of it hits me fully. I’m ashamed, and I hurt for Abby.
“In case you weren’t sure how much you messed up, I wanted you to know. We’re talking big-time, brother. If that weren’t bad enough, then you go and make assumptions based on Jack and some random guy who works for you rather than trusting Abby, someone we’ve both known and trusted for years.”
“I didn’t mean for that to hap
pen,” I say, lifting my head to look at my sister. She seems thoroughly unimpressed with my excuse. Which is exactly what it is. I want to go back in time and kick myself. Then kick Jack and Josh. But me first.
“Good intentions really aren’t worth much, are they?”
They aren’t. Which is exactly why I stopped calling Abby two days ago. That was before I knew exactly how badly I screwed up.
Zoey kicks me in the shin.
“Ow.” I glance at her. “Aim higher. I deserve it.”
“Oh, boo hoo.” Zoey rolls her eyes and kicks me again, harder, in the same place. “Is this your plan? To wallow and punish yourself?” Another kick.
I shrug. “There is no plan. It’s over. I ruined everything.”
Zoey groans and stands up, kicking me one last time. “I usually mean it as a term of endearment, but this time I really mean it, little brother. You’re an idiot.”
“I know that. Do you think I don’t know that?” I throw my hands up.
Zoey grabs them, squeezing my hands tightly. “You’re missing the point. You’re an idiot for not going after her. She went home to stay with her family in Katy, by the way. You’re an idiot for not going after her. For thinking that a few unanswered texts and calls is where you should stop. Dream bigger.”
The words take a moment to roll over me, and when they do, I feel like I’ve been caught in a sudden downpour of the emotional kind.
Dream bigger is what Mom used to say to us, her encouragement, her catch phrase. It was sort of her guide for life. When we’d talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up, or what we were looking forward to about summer.
After celebrating any of our successes, she would always hug us and tell us that we did a great job, and now it was time to dream bigger.
“I am an idiot,” I tell my sister, squeezing her hands until she’s squirming to escape my grasp.
“Ow! Let go.”
I do, but then stand and ruffle her hair in the way I know she hates. “I’m an idiot, and you’re the idiot who shares my DNA.”
“Only fifty percent,” Zoey says, smoothing back her hair and elbowing me in the process.
Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin: a Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Clichés Sweet RomCom Series Book 1) Page 18
