“Lexie?” the female twin with her hair up guessed. “He’s Myles North, which based on what Charlie has told me, makes you Lexie.”
I tried a tentative smile. “Um. Yeah. My infamy precedes me, I guess.”
The male twin with the undercut, the father of the toddler, nodded seriously. “Oh yeah, for sure. She was all like, god, that sister of mine. What a bitch. You’re gonna hate her. Please punch her for me.”
The other twin elbowed him. “What my idiot twin, who thinks he’s funny, is trying to say, is that Charlie has told us very good things about you.”
I frowned. “She has?”
The longhaired one nodded. “She has. How cool you are, how much we’re all going to love you.”
“That you’re bringing one of our music idols with you,” the other said.
Myles snorted. “I’m ain’t worthy of being anyone’s idol, guys.” He shook their hands, one and then the other. “I’m Myles.”
“No shit you’re Myles,” the jokester twin said. “I ate too much cheese yesterday so I’m majorly constipated, otherwise I’d be shitting myself, meeting you.”
“Two things, Cor—one, fuckin’ gross, dude. Nobody needs to know you’re constipated. Two, quit fanboying the man. Get—it—together.” This from the other twin, the last three words emphasized with a light but loud backhand-forehand-backhand slap.
“Slap me again, bitch, and I’ll hogtie you and force-feed you Lena’s pureed peas.”
“You said a bad word, Daddy,” I heard a tiny voice say from around my knees—a little boy of four or so, with his dad’s brown hair and his mom’s eyes. “You gotta give me a dollar.”
Corin glanced down, ruffled the boy’s head. “Hey, kiddo. Didn’t know you were standing there, bud.” He frowned. “How do you know I said a bad word?”
“Because whenever you get mad about stuff you saysonofabitchreal loud and Mommy gets mad at you and you gotta give me a dollar.”
Corin restrained a smile. “You’re right, that is a bad word. But if I owe you a buck for saying it, you owe me a buck back because you said it too.” He shrugged. “So I’d say we’re even.”
The little boy shook his head firmly. “Nuh-uh. I only said it to say you said it. I didn’t really say it.”
Canaan smirked. “He’s got you there, bro.”
“No!” Corin said. “It still counts. Saying it is saying it, regardless of your intention.”
And then the twins were arguing about swearing, until the boy tugged on Corin’s pant leg. “Daddy? Daddy!”
Corin broke away from his argument with his brother and glanced down. “Yeah, bud?”
“I gotta poop.”
Corin laughed. “Well? Go! You know where it is.”
“But it’s a big one, and I gotta go now.”
Corin’s eyes widened, and he scooped his son up and whisked him off horizontally, making airplane noises while the boy laughed hysterically, interspersed with sing-song chants of “poop poop poopy poop.”
I watched the proceedings with amusement and said to Myles, “I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find at this family party, but not this.”
Myles waved at the reduced circle around us. “Nice to meet you guys. Canaan, I think, right? Maybe we can get together for a jam session before I skip town.”
The remaining twin nodded. “Yeah, I’m Canaan. And a jam session sounds like an awesome idea.” He hesitated. “Did you bring Betty-Lou with you?”
Myles shook his head. “Nah, I keep her in a temperature- and humidity-controlled storage case. I have a new guitar I’m dying to break in.”
Canaan’s eyes widened. “You have it with you?” he breathed, his voice awed and reverential.
Myles frowned. “You know about the guitar?”
