“I want pickles, Shelby,” I stated slowly. “You always give me pickles with my sandwiches.”
There was a brief silence. “Liam, are you ill?”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. She must be drunk.
What kind of question was that? Obviously if I were ill, I wouldn’t be asking for pickles, would I?
I brought the phone back to my ear. “No.”
“Is the house on fire?”
Bloody hell. If the house were on fire would I be calmly asking for pickles?
She was drunk. An hour into her date, Douglas had her bladdered. That wanker.
“No.”
“Unless one of those two things occur, don’t call me again.” Her voice lowered to almost a hiss. “I’m on a date, for God’s sake.”
Then she hung up on me, leaving me blinking into the dead phone.
Huh. Another rule, it would seem. No calls about pickles.
Except now, I was worried; if she was drinking, she shouldn’t be driving. I texted her again. It wasn’t about pickles, so it had to be acceptable.
Liam: I’ll pick you up if you’re too drunk to drive.Then I looked at my empty glass and realized I probably couldn’t drive. I sent another message.
Liam: Or send a car for you.Her reply was swift.
Shelby: I think you’re the drunk one. I am turning my phone off now. DATE, Liam. I am NOT drunk—I am on a DATE!Dammit, how did she know I was drunk?
I sulked a bit as I picked up my sandwich. I was just trying to help. And the sandwich wasn’t the same without pickles. I grabbed my phone again and called Everett.
He answered, sounding impatient. “What, Liam?”
“Hey.”
“What do you need?”
“Do you have any idea where Shelby would keep the pickles?”
“What? How the hell would I know that?”
“She’s your sister.”
“We don’t often discuss pickles, Liam.”
I could hear noise in the background, the clink of china and the sound of music. “Where are you?”
“I’m out.”
“Out where?”
His voice lowered. “I’m on a date. Which you are interrupting.”
Bloody hell. Was everyone out on a date tonight but me?
“Are you out with Shelby and Douglas? Are you doubling?”
“What? Shelby is out on a date? With Douglas?” His voice was shocked.
Bollocks. He didn’t know. Shelby hadn’t told him, and now I had ratted her out.
“Never mind,” I mumbled. “I’ll eat the sandwich without pickles. Have a good night.”
“Don’t hang up, Liam.”
I did.
Then I turned off the phone.
Shelby was gonna be pissed with me. Again.
I ate my sandwiches, without pickles, and carried my plate back to the kitchen. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey to save myself the trip back. I had a feeling it was gonna be one of those nights.
For some reason, I walked around the house, pausing in the different rooms, looking around, not sure what I was searching for but unable to settle. I even ended up outside Shelby’s bedroom door. I flicked on the light, looking around her room, but not entering. Its warm colors and light furniture suited her well. I knew she was comfortable there, and I wanted her to be. I wanted her to feel at home. I stood looking for a while, feeling closer to her somehow, before shutting off the light and turning away. Finally, I ended up back in the den and at the desk. I sat down heavily and stared at the wall, not understanding the strange feelings or the restless, uneasy twinges I kept having.
My gaze landed on the large framed picture across from my desk, and I smiled as I looked at it. I had drawn it when I was a kid, and my mum had kept it, bringing it with her the last time she came for a visit. That had been the first time she’d met Shelby, and, not surprisingly, had loved her. The two of them got on so well I was almost jealous. Mum had given me the picture, which I had scoffed at, wondering why she had brought it. But Shelby had pounced on it, declaring it the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. She’d had it framed and hung it in here, saying it was something I had to keep.
I remembered drawing it for Mum. I also remembered my dad’s hand covering mine to help me write out the words I wanted to outline and color in. It was an expression she said all the time, her Scottish accent rolling the r out almost lyrically.
I glanced up at the picture again.
“Home is where the heart is.”
She’d cried when I proudly gave it to her.
She’d cried again, years later, when she saw how Shelby had turned it into a lasting memento and hung it somewhere I would see it every day.
I had to admit, my throat had been thick watching Mum’s reaction and thinking how amazing Shelby was to have done that for me.
I took another deep draw of whiskey, enjoying the burn in my throat as I frowned.