The Truth

But I did. For my brother, because I’m the best sister evah, and I’ll be expecting my crown, sash, and bouquet as soon as possible.

Okay, that’s not true. I’m not expecting prizes. This dinner with Ace and Harper is enough of a reward.

Especially considering just how delicious the roasted eggplant moussaka that Harper made is. I swipe up the last bite as Harper gets up to take the dishes to the kitchen. I try to help, but she waves me off.

“I’ve got it. I’m sure you two have sibling stuff to talk about,” she says with a kind smile. “Besides, I’m particular on how I scrub my new casserole dish.”

“New casserole dish?” I ask. “I don’t think I own a casserole dish, period, much less have a new one as compared to an old one.”

Harper looks to Ace with doe eyes. “Ace bought it for me. It’s turquoise with sweet little yellow flowers. You can borrow it if you’d like.”

That’s Harper. She’s picky about caring for her things, but if you need it, she’ll readily hand it over.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I wouldn’t want to burn anything in it or wash it wrong. And I don’t have any urgent casserole recipes right now.”

She laughs like that was a joke as she walks toward the kitchen, and I’d bet that she has a whole Pinterest board of casserole recipes, especially now that she has a new and pretty dish.

Ace’s gaze follows Harper, a wide smile on his lips as he watches her carefully clean up. He’s not merely smitten, he’s full-blown addicted to Harper and treats her like a queen.

Which is good. She deserves it, especially as she treats him like a king as well.

Seeing them both distracted, I take the opportunity to slip a small crust of bread to Kevin, Ace’s dog, who’s been hiding under the table in hopes of snatching any dropped crumbs.

With his long ears that drag the floor, droopy face, and overbite, Kevin is the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen. He perpetually looks like someone stole his favorite squeaky toy and he’s on the verge of dissolving into tears, so we’ve taken to affectionately and accurately calling him a goblin.

From the first moment he came to Ace’s doorstep, the abandoned runt of a litter, he’s been Ace’s baby boy. The only area where Ace is able to resist spoiling the dog is in table scraps. But that seems to be my job as his kind-hearted aunt and sucker du jour, because he knows exactly how to wheedle me for snacks. Like now, when he whines for another piece of bread, effectively tattling on me.

Ace gives me a look. “I should make you take him out for his next walk if you’re going to do that. Do you know what olive oil does to him?”

“Make his coat shiny and handsome?” I quip, and Ace rolls his eyes. “What? It’s true.”

“And give him the squats,” Ace adds. “Besides, we don’t feed him from the table in general. It’s bad manners.”

“Bad manners?” I ask, laughing and then holding my hands up, palms toward Ace. “Whoa, look out, we got ourselves a badass over here, folks!”

“Tiffany.”

I giggle. He’s just so indignant. “Ace, have you met yourself? You literally farted on my couch so many times, and with the vilest Taco Bell fumes, that I had to burn it. The resulting mushroom cloud of noxiousness made the local news channel think we were under attack. They almost called in the National Guard.”

Ace growls. “You did not burn the damn couch. The fucking thing’s right there.”

He gestures toward the couch in question with a glare, both at the reminder of his dark days and probably at the I’m-not-exaggerating ghosts of Taco Bell. Proof? Simple. He didn’t argue about the fumes, only the burning.

“That was you before, babe!” Harper calls from the kitchen. “It made you the man you are today.”

I swear she would forgive a murderer once he’d done his time, naively trusting that they’d reformed into a saint. Ace can still murder more than a few tacos and burritos, though, and I hope he’s discovered that some Beano can work wonders on the resulting stink.

Not wanting to put Ace through the stench I went through, I tell myself to ignore Kevin’s begging. “Well, I would’ve put that old couch in the trash if I could’ve carried it to the curb,” I concede. “I guess if you don’t smell it, that’s all that matters. But can I offer a suggestion?” I continue without pausing, assuming he wants the wisdom my status as an older sister provides, “Do not put Harper ass-up and face-down on that thing. She’d suffocate in old methane death bombs.”

“Eloquent.”

I choose to misunderstand his sarcastic compliment and give a bow that’s unfortunately restricted by the table. “Thank you. I do my best.”