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I pinned Dylan with a glare. “It used to be a dollar.”
Dylan shrugged. “Inflation, baby. Besides, you can afford it.”
“How’s Tuck doing?” I changed the subject. Dylan didn’t want to accept my gift in the form of a house I’d built for her. She thought it was too much and didn’t want to be a charity case. Truth was, she wasn’t. It was a way to calm my raging guilt for leaving her and Mom behind.
“Not sure. He stopped calling since I never pick up.” She dragged her finger along the sauce on the plate, sucking it. “And I never pick up because he’s a jerk.”
“Why the shit are you marrying the man, then?” I tossed the sorted cube on the table. It never took me more than a minute to solve.
She stood up, carrying her plate to the sink to wash it. I made a move to help her, but she shook her head. “Absolutely not. If you don’t let me do something around here, I’ll go mad. I think I’m halfway there already.”
She squirted enough soap to bathe a baby whale and began washing the plate. “You and I both know why I’m marrying him: Mom. I’m already a huge disappointment—no, don’t give me that look, I know I am. No college, no prospects, a baby out of wedlock. The least I can do for my child is marry her father.”
“The least you can do for your child is do what’s right for you and give her an example of an independent, fearless woman choosing her own path in life,” I countered. “You hate Tuck, and I don’t blame you.” I still had no idea what had inspired her to waste so many years with that toolbag. “What kind of—”
“Look.” She raised a wet palm up to stop me, grabbing a rag from the counter and wiping her hands with it. “I don’t want to talk about Tuck. How are you feeling about Cal being here?”
“Indifferent.” I raised an eyebrow.
She rolled her eyes, walking my way and patting my knee. “Oh, Rowy.”
“It was a childhood crush.” My cheekbones stung. “I don’t have any feelings for her anymore.”
“Well, just so you know, if you want to jam the clam, I no longer care.” She dropped onto the seat next to me.
“Why would I want to jam a clam?” I stared at her, vaguely disturbed. “Is this a fucking TikTok challenge or something?”
“You know.” Her eyes flared for emphasis. “If you want to sour the kraut, so to speak.”
I glowered, still not getting it. “Kraut is not soured, it is fermented. It’s actually easy, all you have to do is salt the—”
“Oh my God, what I mean is you guys can screw each other for all I care. I won’t stand in your way or throw a big fit.” Dylan tossed her hands in the air. This caught me by surprise, considering her epic meltdown five years ago.
I squinted at her. “Why the change of heart?”
She flipped her dark hair to one shoulder, looking for fuzzy individual hairs she wanted to pluck with a careless shrug. “I didn’t want you two to hook up because I was afraid your feelings were going to get hurt. I love Dot to death, but she’s never been in a serious relationship with a guy. I mean, she claimed to have hooked up with a bunch of people, but I mostly saw her actively running away from them when we were growing up. Especially after freshman year of high school. It’s like something in her switched and she became this distrustful person. I was the only human, outside of her parents, she could open up to.” Dylan wet her lips. “I guess, deep down, I was always afraid Cal wasn’t capable of love. Or at least, not the kind of love you deserve. I guarded your feelings. But since you obviously loathe her right now, I no longer care. You are both adults. You can do whatever you want.”
“Not that I’m actually considering this.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Greatest fucking lie to ever be recorded on Earth, by the way. “But are you saying that if Cal and I hooked up tomorrow, you wouldn’t care?”
“Not in the least.”
“Because I don’t have feelings for her?” My eyes narrowed.
“Because you hate her and will never fall in love with her again,” she corrected.
I studied her intently. Why did I want to call bullshit on her? Maybe because Dylan knew me like the back of her hand and knew I hated Cal like Hemingway hated a good drink. She was planning something. I’d ask her what it was, but I had just gotten a free ticket to do what I wanted—my baby sister’s best friend—and the less I read into that, the better.
“As I said, I have no interest in Cal.” I sat back, toying with the cigarette between my fingers.
“Of course you don’t, you sweet summer child.” There was a pregnant pause, in which she dragged her teeth against her lip. “Can I have a treat now?” She knew she wasn’t supposed to have sugar.
“One cookie,” I allowed.
“Yay.” She pumped her fists in the air.
“It’s sugar- and gluten-free, by the way.”
“Nay.” Her two thumbs dove to the floor with a pout.
