Page 67 of Things We Tell Ourselves

Mr. Sykes hands the bag over as his wife perches herself at the foot of Evelyn’s bed, placing the bag on her lap.

“You never know when you’ll meet your husband, dear,” she says, rummaging through the bag.

Evelyn rolls her eyes. “Meeting over the phone doesn’t count. He had no clue if you were wearing lipstick or not.” She looks over at Camille, who gives her a sympathetic grin.

“Evenin’, Camille,” Mr. Sykes nods. “We are quite impressed with that boyfriend of yours.” He drops down into the recliner she freed up for him. Camille stares up at Wade, smiling.

“I am too.”

“Did Evelyn tell you about the trip we’re planning for her to visit China this Christmas?”

“She has not,” Camille admits, “but she’s talked about wanting to go for years now.”

“It’s the least we can do,” Mr. Sykes continues, “since she nearly lost her arm working for us.”

“I didn’t come close to losing my arm,” Evelyn tells him. “And with this plastic surgeon’s help, the burn will barely be noticeable.”

“Will you be visiting Jasmin’s family?” Camille asks her.

“Jasmin’s already working on the itinerary, I’m sure,” Evelyn grins. “I texted her as soon as Dad told me.”

Camille shakes her head, leaning into Wade. Jasmin was their wildest friend from college and hadn’t changed much in the few years since.

“I bet she’s already planning how best to give you alcohol poisoning.”

“You girls shouldn’t talk like that,” Mrs. Sykes chastises, taking out two tubes of lipstick. She holds them up for Evelyn. “Pink or red?”

“Neither,” Evelyn says, her mood souring as she glares at the lipstick in her mother’s hands.

Mrs. Sykes lets out a huff, turning to her husband as he sits back in the recliner. “Remind your daughter how we met.”

Wade leans in, whispering into Camille’s ear, “You ready to go home?”

Camille turns her head to look at him, loving the way he says home. The word has multiple meanings depending on their location. In Illinois, it means Wade’s house that sits on Lake Travis next to Leah’s sprawling primary residence. It keeps them less than ten minutes away from Bloom and Bloom’s headquarters. She prefers his smaller house in Sacramento. Here in Dallas, him wanting to go home means her tiny apartment that he swears still smells like all those flowers he sent her. When she asked him how he felt about slumming it with her in Dallas, he simply said, “I don’t care where I sleep as long as it’s next to you.”

“Almost,” she whispers.

Mr. Sykes shakes his head at his wife. “She knows, dear,” he sighs, reclining back, “you’ve reminded her on several occasions.”

Evelyn’s mother frowns. “And I haven’t exaggerated once.” She glances over at Camille and Wade. “You see, when I younger, I was always the first person up in my family. My brothers slept in just like my parents. So, when the phone rang early one morning, I answered it as I always did.” Mrs. Sykes dips her chin, giving her best male impression. “‘Good morning, Mr. Anderson,’ this silky male voice said to me, ‘is Drew available?’” Mrs. Sykes’s eyes bulge in mock horror. “This young man on the phone thought that I was my father. I didn’t know what to say. I about dropped the phone.”

All of them, including Mr. Sykes, chuckle. Her eyes settle on her husband.

“I don’t even remember if I responded to you.”

Mr. Sykes smiles. “Darling, I have no clue. I don’t even remember that conversation.”

Mrs. Sykes shakes her head. “Well, I do. I left the phone hanging in the hallway and pounded on my brother’s door. It may have been the first time I heard my true love’s voice, but it was the last time I was going to answer the phone early in the morning.”

She turns back to Evelyn, taking the cap off of the tube of red lipstick.

“Now, pucker up.”