“Put wiseass on his,” June tells Violet.
“I can’t, Rusty’s here,” Violet says. “And then she’s going to ask Daniel what wiseass means, and then I’m going to have to hear about it, and I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I’m nearly positive Rusty knows what wiseass means,” I point out.
Violet just frowns at me, contemplative, and taps the Sharpie against the table. June joins her.
I watch them, wondering what it’s like to have a normal family.
“Okay, got it,” Violet finally says, and starts writing on the name tag, covering it with her other hand. A moment later, she tears it off the sheet and holds it out.HELLO
My name is
SETH
- Older brother
- Stress bakes
- Co-owns the brewery“You forgot handsomest and best at ping-pong,” I say. I guess older brother is right if we’re talking about Caleb, who’s only got the one kind.
“No, we didn’t,” June says, grinning. “The name tag is perfect and correct. All hail the name tag.”
I just sigh and stick it on the breast pocket of my flannel shirt, even though Thalia has already met me several times and even stayed at my house.
It’s sweet of them, really. My family can be a lot sometimes — just through sheer numbers — but they’re almost always the good kind of a lot. They’re the kind who’ll hassle you and meddle nonstop, but out of love.
A few minutes later, Caleb and Thalia show up, and the pandemonium increases because Eli immediately tries to involve her in an argument he’s having with Levi about wood, Rusty wants to show her something, and everyone else just sort of… descends.
Frankly, I’m glad for the distraction.Dinner passes uneventfully, if you can call a twelve-person dinner where at one point someone starts a chant of free the tadpoles! uneventful. Afterward, I volunteer to clean up. Caleb and Daniel volunteer to help me, and we fall easily into the old, familiar after-dinner pattern that we all shared until we moved out of the house.
“Thalia doing all right?” I ask Caleb, rinsing plates and handing them for dishwasher loading.
“I think so,” he says, glancing over his shoulder toward the living room. “Last I checked, she was teaching Rusty to experiment on Thomas’s brain.”
Thomas is Rusty’s four-month-old brother. He barely has a brain to be experimented on.
“So long as it’s the careful kind of brain surgery,” I say.
Behind me, Daniel snorts.
“When I left Thalia was explaining object permanence and hiding a stuffed monkey behind a box,” Caleb says. “Hopefully they haven’t progressed to sharp objects just yet.”
“There’s no screaming,” says Daniel, stacking silverware on the counter next to the sink. “I’ll worry when the screaming starts.”
“Not yet,” Eli says from across the room, walking into the big farmhouse kitchen.
“The screaming?” I ask.
“The object permanence,” he says, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer. It’s one of ours, a Southern Lights IPA. “Every time the monkey comes back Thomas is surprised and delighted.”
“Same. It’s a cool monkey,” Caleb says.
Eli grins, then leans against the counter right in front of the dirty dishes.
“You here to help?” I ask, reaching around him for silverware.
“Nope,” he says, taking a drink. “I cooked, remember?”
“Then quit being in the way.”
He moves about six inches along the counter, still drinking and giving me looks I studiously ignore.
“So,” he finally says, when it becomes clear that I’m not volunteering anything. “Yesterday didn’t go well?” he finally asks.
I rinse the hell out of a platter. It’s the cleanest platter in the world.
“Yesterday went fine,” I say, grabbing a dirty saucepan.
“You showed up hungover with scones,” Eli says.
“I baked for my family.”
“Which are good, by the way,” he goes on. “Though the cardamom ones are still a little dry in the middle, you probably need a tad more liquid if you’re not going to include fruit or chocolate.”
“I’ll make a note,” I say, swishing water around.
“Why there are hangover scones?” Daniel finally asks.
“Because I love you all and want you to be happy,” I say.
“Do you two know?” he asks, ignoring my answer.
I shut off the water and look at him over my shoulder.
“You’re seriously asking them while I’m standing right here?”
“You’ve had your chance,” he says, mildly.
Briefly, I wonder what it’s like to have a family that doesn’t consider your personal business to be up for public debate. Is it nice? Do people leave you alone every so often? Can you just make them scones without inviting them to form an investigative committee?
“One time, I want to keep my personal life personal,” I say, balancing the pot atop the platter. It’s a little precarious, but I’m feeling reckless. “Just once.”
“Wow,” Eli says.
“It’s not an insane request,” I point out.
“No, wow that you thought attending a four-hundred-person wedding with your ex was somehow going to stay a secret,” Eli says.
“You went to a wedding with her?” Caleb asks.
He’s now ignoring the open dishwasher and stack of dirty dishes to stare at me. I pick up a serving bowl and put it in the sink, pointedly ignoring him.