I can feel Liz’s gaze boring into the back of my head as I set the last plate down. “I guess it’s good I never married him, then.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he’d never have had a chance to name a son Clancy.” It’s the running joke in our family that to be born with a Y chromosome, you have to be canine. Mom has three sisters, three daughters, and two—soon to be three—granddaughters.
The door to the kitchen swings open and a gust of cold air sweeps in. “We’re here! We’re here! Don’t start without us!” Vicki waddles in, her cheeks puffy, one hand on her swollen belly, the other on her back for support. She looks as wide as she is tall. Of the three of us, she’s the only one who inherited our mother’s petite stature.
Oliver follows closely after, his lanky arms saddled with bags of empty Tupperware containers that Mom will gleefully refill for their freezer. Having children who still need her in their twenties and thirties keeps her young, she always says.
The smile that fills my face when I see my twenty-nine-year-old baby sister is genuine. “You look good.”
“I look like a beached whale. Get this thing out of me already!” she wails.
Liz’s snicker vanishes in her glass of wine.
* * *
“Whatever happened to that guy you were seeing?” Vicki looks ready to explode in her chair, her cheeks flushed, her palms rubbing over her enormous belly in a futile effort to help digest her meal. “What was his name, Tom or Cody, something like that—thanks, babe.”
Oliver collects Vicki’s empty plate and gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze. I’d label him a doting husband to his uncomfortably pregnant wife, but he has always been that way, catering to Vicki’s every need.
In contrast, my other brother-in-law has never once put his own dishes into the dishwasher, let alone anyone else’s.
“Toby.” I pass my plate to Oliver’s waiting hand and nod my thanks. “It didn’t go anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He’s a really nice guy. He’s just not for me.” As I knew would be the case when I agreed to dinner with Jonah and Calla’s neighbor and friend.
“Oh.” Vicki’s brow furrows with disappointment. “That’s too bad. He seemed like your type.”
I laugh. “You’ve never even met him.”
“Well, yeah, I know, but you said he was big and burly and … and …” Vicki searches for words, settling on “hairy.” She caps that with a burp that earns giggles from Tillie and Nicole.
He sounded like Jonah is what she’s saying. Unlike Liz, Vicki has met my best friend before, and even though she married a man who couldn’t be more different—a gangly, baby-faced sweetheart with a total of four chest hairs (Vicki has counted)—she immediately saw Jonah’s rugged appeal.
But Toby is nothing like Jonah.
There is nobody out there like that guy.
“What about Cook?” Oliver chirps from the kitchen sink where he’s already scrubbing a dirty pot.
“Who, Steve Cook? Your boss?” Vicki’s face scrunches up. “Isn’t he living with someone?”
“Nah, they broke up. He’s single again. I think he’s, like, forty-two? Maybe forty-four?”
“Oh.” Vicki ponders that a second and then shrugs as if to say, Why not? “Yeah, you should try Steve.”
As if he were a pair of socks to test out.
Being the perpetually single Lehr sister—and the oldest, at that—for the past few years, I’m used to this. Every family dinner inevitably veers to the topic of my love life … or lack thereof. It’s usually Jim throwing out single friends’ names, though. Oliver must feel like he has to fill the void.
I tap my foot beneath the table as I finish off the last of my beer. Are all families like this or just mine?
“Anything exciting happen at work this week?” My dad changes the topic, saving me from more matchmaking.
“Not until today. You almost had another dog.”
“Don’t you dare bring any more animals into this house!” Mom protests, collecting the last of the dirty dishes before heading to the dishwasher, pausing long enough to toss scraps of meat to Yukon’s and Bentley’s waiting maws. “I thought I was done running a rescue house when your father retired.”
Dad and I share an amused look. All three dogs currently living under this roof are here because Mom offered to foster them and then wouldn’t give them up.
“And what was this one’s story?” he asks.
“On that note …” Vicki eases out of her seat to waddle toward the living room. Though she can’t resist a box of kittens, she was never bitten by the veterinarian bug and finds our chatter “depressing.”
Dad collects a toothpick and leans back in his chair, readying to hear my tale. By the time I’m done recounting Harry’s visit and everything that followed, including the accusations Tyler made about my motivations, Dad’s expression has soured. “Sounds like a real son of a—”