“Monica Shailor-Chapman? That … Bette Davis.”
“What Caroline means,” Hannah explained for Dean’s benefit, “is that Monica Shailor-Chapman is a bitch. Her husband is a bitch, and Oz Wylie is the biggest bitch of all.”
“Yes! Facts!” Lyssa snapped her fingers over her head and jerked her forearm toward the ceiling.
She was a very good cheerleader, even without the outfit. Her impassioned defense made me feel all gooey.
“What are you going to do now, Mikey?” my dad asked. “You still need an investor for your hobby farm.”
I shrugged. “Sell my body?”
“To science?” Tessa asked politely. “Or the streets?”
“No offense, Mike,” my sister said, which meant she was about to annihilate me, “but you don’t have the skill for either.”
I had a comeback, but Dad cut us off. “Caroline, Mike. No bickering at the table. Eat your carrots.”
Dean and Chase shared a meaningful look, universal to in-laws at a family dinner. Lyssa craned her neck, trying to catch Dean’s or Chase’s eye to share this moment with them too, wanting to be included in the experience. Seeing this, my gut clenched. She was desperate for a sense of belonging, and god help her, she wanted that with the Hollidays.
Without thinking twice about it, I picked up her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers.
Everyone saw.
It was as good as hiring a skywriter.
Dean shook his head at me, the half twist of his mouth saying loudly and clearly: You dirty dog, Mike Holliday.
Dad looked pleased, which was nice.
Hannah was looking back and forth between us, her jaw slack. Tessa was studying her phone under the table, because she truly couldn’t care less whose hands I kissed.
But Caroline pushed her chair back from the table with a loud scraping sound. “Mike, will you help me with the dessert?”
It was not a request.
Dad had barely finished his chicken, and Tessa had been drinking more than eating—her plate was only missing carrots—but I knew Caroline didn’t really need help with the apple pie.
I followed her into the kitchen, hands in my pockets. Caroline smiled widely at everyone sitting at the table, before sliding shut the accordion door that covered the cutout between the till and the kitchen. Then she rounded on me, her smile gone.
“What the Fred Astaire are you playing at, Mike?”
I shrugged, because what was there to say? I’d made things clear as day.
Sounds of chatter continued behind the screen, and Caroline stepped closer to me. She was trying to be intimidating, but it was a wasted effort considering she barely came up to my shoulder. The shrimp hadn’t grown since she was about fourteen—at least, not height wise. Her ego, on the other hand, grew and grew, like James’s giant peach. My sister truly thought that it was up to her what Lyssa did. Or, more relevantly today, who. Or whomest.
Her pointy finger circled the air in front of my face.
“Go away, Shrimp.”
“Are you fucking Lyssa?” she demanded.
I could have lied. Instead, I grinned.
“What the fuck, Mike?” Caroline was really annoyed if she was saying real swears. Part of me was proud of this achievement.
“What happened to her being ‘too much banana for one milkshake’?” Caroline demanded, her imitation of me offensively dude-bro-ish.
“Who told you I said that?”
