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“Seriously, I’m fine. This is why I didn’t let you come to DC earlier. Y’all hover.”
“I don’t,” Poppy said, pushing past me into the bathroom. “I just drank as much soda as you did and need to tinkle. Though, if I were being overbearing, I’d say I didn’t hear the toilet flush, which means you’re either gross or severely dehydrated.” She glanced at the toilet and back at me. “Dehydrated it is.”
“I was just waiting to wash my hands,” Chris said, “But might as well help my favorite sister to the table instead of listening for toilet flushes like a perv.” Poppy gave him a one-finger salute and slammed the door. He grabbed my elbow and guided me to the dining room like I was made of glass. An armchair that belonged in the living room sat at the head of the table like athrone. Without warning, he lifted me off my feet and placed me on the cushioned seat.
“What?” he said, blushing. “I’m weight training for tryouts. I could carry you upstairs later. It looked like the porch steps gave you trouble.”
“I’m fine,” I said gently. “Did you put this chair here or Mom?”
“I did after Poppy texted that you were walking like an eighty-year-old. These wood chairs hurt my butt, so I figured they’d be torture for you.”
“Thanks, Chris,” I said, squeezing his hand. He squeezed it back so weakly I almost laughed. “Whoa,” I said, taking in all the dishes on the table.
It wasn’t so much a cohesive meal as a buffet of savory and sweet options with only one thing in common: I loved them all. A steaming bowl of chipped beef gravy beside a platter of thinly sliced country ham. Fried chicken with waffles. Fresh strawberries smothered in mountains of whipped cream. Hush puppies, fries, and mozzarella sticks. Flatbread pizza with homemade crust. And no less than three types of pie.
“Is Mom expecting company?”
“Nah,” Chris said, popping a fry in his mouth.
I felt a stab of guilt. Mom and I both liked to let off steam in the kitchen. Something about kneading dough and measuring ingredients precisely always lowered my blood pressure, while she enjoyed anything that ended with feeding people. She’d clearly been working through some strong feelings, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know I’d caused them.
“Oh good,” Mom said, hurrying in with a covered dish. “You’re settled. I made collard greens for something healthy.” She plopped the dish on the table and scurried out as Poppy entered the dining room.
She looked at the table and snorted before pulling out the chair beside me.
“Don’t worry, Pop, I made a garden salad,” Chris said, disappearing into the kitchen.
“Since when does Chris eat salad?” I asked, taking the cloth napkin from my plate and placing it on my lap.
Poppy grabbed a water pitcher and filled my glass to the brim with a glare. She watched me gulp half the glass, then refilled it before filling her own.
“He’s trying out for the varsity football team in August,” Mom said, breezing back into the room with a gravy boat and an overflowing bowl of mashed potatoes. Chris followed with a large green salad and a small pitcher.
“I made the dressing myself,” he said proudly.
After Dad died and Mom started working insane hours to make ends meet, I took over most meal prep while Poppy handled the dishes. Being only two, Chris’s initial contribution was banging pots and pans on the kitchen floor while I cooked or baked. When he got old enough to wash up, my sister shoved that task his way and took over mowing the lawn from me. I’d never eaten anything made by my brother, and I wasn’t sure my stomach was experiment ready.
He served me a heap of mixed greens and roasted veggies, and I dutifully poured the dressing on top. Mom stopped rearranging the serving dishes to watch, either to see my reaction to Chris’s cooking or to assure herself I was eating.
“This looks great,” I said, because, honestly, it did. I took a bite and an explosion of unexpected flavors hit my tongue. “What’s in this?” I asked, going in for another forkful.
Chris beamed and shot Mom a smug look. “Curried chickpeas with a lime-coconut dressing.”
“Your brother has been watching cooking videos on YouTube,” Mom said, finally taking a seat. “He says we need to eat healthier.”
“We do,” Chris said, lifting a huge portion of salad onto his plate. “But just because it’s healthy doesn’t mean it has to taste bad.”
“Rowan, pass me your plate,” Mom said. “You can eat rabbit food later. You need real calories.”
Poppy grabbed it before I could protest and gave it to Mom, who loaded on more food than I could eat in a week.
“I was able to get you a physical therapy appointment tomorrow morning,” Mom said, passing back my plate.
“Is it in town?” I asked, suddenly ravenous. I bit into a fried chicken breast and moaned.
Mom shot Chris a smug look and he shrugged.
“Right on Main Street,” Mom said. “I’ll take you and bring you home after, unless you’d rather borrow my car.”
