“Let’s skip to the juicy part,” she says, grinning. “How’s the wedding arch coming, Dilly-Bar? Or should I ask how the wedding planner is coming along?”
Leah nearly drops the cider jug in glee. Jenna’s eyes shine the way they did when she got floor seats to Harry Styles. Mom, whisking gravy, casts me the look every Smyth kid recognizes: I love you, but I’m listening.
I rinse my hands. “The arch is solid. Addison Bennett gave the preliminary approval last night when we did a light test.”
Leah’s brow arches, twin to mine when I spot a bowed beam. “‘Approval’ — nice, neutral verb.”
“She also smooched off on it, I bet,” Morgan sings.
Heat barrels up my neck. Jenna squeals loudly, eating up the drama. Dad shuffles in from the mudroom, grease on his coveralls, moustache twitching with cosmic amusement.
“Let the boy breathe,” he says, though you can hear the grin in his voice. Leah’s husband Dean and Morgan’s husband Rob follow him in. “His volunteer projects keep him busy and out of trouble, always have.”
“Volunteer, my butt,” Leah mutters as she pours the cider.
Mom slides a maple-pecan pie into the bottom oven, then turns with a gentle shoot-to-kill stare. “You sure this is what you want, sweetheart? Loving a woman who is responsible for other people’s disasters is definitely difficult.”
“Who’s talking about loving anybody?” I ask, and Leah chokes on her cider.
Hazel wanders back, climbs a stool to “help” Mom taste gravy. Morgan bounces Finley and leans closer.
“Addison’s older, yeah? That bug you?”
“Only bothers people looking for gossip.” Mostly true, until Cassandra’s smug face and Meredith Langford’s wide-eyes flash across my mind.
Jenna, temporarily phone-free, slides a bowl of rosemary rolls toward me. “She’s levelled-up — career, life, wardrobe. That can be intimidating. Which scares you more, getting left behind or getting outclassed?”
I break a roll, steam billowing. “Neither. You’re all reading too much into this.”
Dad claps my shoulder. “Treat her like a crystal cake topper — steady hands, no sudden moves.”
My family sees right through me. Always has. Always will.
I take out my phone to send a quick text to Addison.
Pie-slice IOUs still valid? We could turn it into a pie tasting thing for the fundraiser meeting, strictly professional, of course. Also, do you prefer cherry or rogue-hot dog flavor?
It doesn’t take too long for her to reply.
Ah-Ah! Cherry — no rogue-hot dog-flavored pie, please!
Mom announces “Table!” and the family migrates like geese. Hazel corrals her brothers, Theo and Milo, who are sword-fighting with breadsticks. Leah confiscates the weapons under threat of dish duty until college.
The meal blitzes by: pulled-pork sliders, scalloped potatoes, garden-tomato salad, Dad’s cider cold enough to mist the glasses. Conversation pinballs — Leah’s municipal-council campaign, Jenna’s eco-party-favor side hustle, Morgan’s burn-room training exercise. I soak it in, half listening, half replaying Addison real laughter under orchard fairy lights.
A lull opens, and I clear my throat. “Since two of you” — I nod at Leah and Morgan — “are about Addison’s age, I need advice. Tips for dating someone who already has her act together.”
“There it is! You finally admit having a crush on Addy!”
Three sister faces light up like hazard beacons.
Leah starts. “Don’t ever call her ma’am. That’s death.”
“Foot rubs,” Morgan adds, patting Finley. “Age has nothing on sore feet after twelve-hour events.”
“Ask real questions,” Jenna says. “Addison spends her life reading other people’s needs. Let her talk about hers.”
Leah’s husband, Rob, breezes by with extra napkins. “And learn her nieces and nephews’ names early. Shows commitment.”
