Page 21 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“I’m sure the guy wanted to pump something after being groped,” Jake says on a laugh.

“Hey. Hello. Hi.” Sadie waves at the group, then points to Max. “Child in the room.”

“I am not a child,” Max says in full exasperation mode. “I know what pumping is.”

Everyone freezes. Mom’s eyes widen.

“Dad lets me pump the gas in his car,” he says emphatically. “Pumping.”

“Right.” Des claps his hands for no apparent reason. “Pumping gas. The pump through which the gas flows. That is what pumping is.”

Delilah picks up a dog toy and beans E in the head. “See what your loud-mouthing caused?”

E shrugs, sheepish. “But it’s such a good story.”

“If you want a good story,” Delilah says, sitting straighter, her eyes alight, “you should ask E about the time he tripped going up the stairs and—”

“Don’t you dare,” he warns.

“But it’s such a good story,” she mimics in a high-pitched voice, her grin pure evil.

Jake shoves E out of the way to give Delilah his full attention, but E bounds back to intercept them. Cal gets in on the action, holding E’s arms in an iron grip, all of them laughing as E struggles to break free—a useless effort. E may be the tallest of us, fit and lean like me, but he’s smaller than our muscled gym-rat brothers. As predicted, E can’t escape. He goes limp, nearly dragging Cal to the floor. Max cracks up. The dogs bark and jump.

Delilah starts shouting about E going commando one day and that he tripped on the stairs. “And his jeans ripped…” She howls as the words stutter out. “His butt was totally hanging out, and”—laughing, she backs away from my brawling brothers—“he gave snooty Mrs. Wiser a view of his butt crack.”

E escapes the guys and tackles Delilah, trying to cover her mouth. The dogs join the melee. Mom releases the keening laugh that sends us all into hysterics, even though it’s complete bedlam.

Unfortunately, I’m not partaking in my family’s jokes. All I’ve done this morning is bounce my heel fast enough to dislocate my knee. I’ve barely said three words since walking in here. My father’s infuriating texts are to blame. Mentioning them would mean dealing with them, when I still haven’t decided how to handle the Life Wrecker. So it feels like I’m sitting on a massive secret. One wrong move and I’ll blurt it before I’m ready.

My family’s laughter and teasing gradually mellows. Mom, Delilah, and Sadie take Max and the dogs out back, where my nephew will sketch and dog-sit, and where he can’t hear our impending discussion. When we talk about Dad, the Bower boys tend to drop a lot of “fucks.”

I burrow deeper into my seat, attempting to fly under the radar, but Cal sidles up to me. “You not feeling well?”

“I’m all good.” I go for nonchalant, letting my body sink into this cushy couch, but my twitching eyelid foils my efforts. “Just, you know, dreading this conversation.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” He nods, his eyes full of sympathy, but he’s also watchful. Of all of us, Cal is the most rational and calm, always eager to offer advice and keep the peace, but I don’t like how intently he’s observing me. “Whatever Dad’s tell-all unearths,” he goes on, “we’ll get through it. We always do. But…”

He zeroes in on my face. My eyelid spasms.

He tilts his way-too-intelligent head. “Something’s up with you.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Right.” He cranes his neck forward, analyzing my general self. “Except we were making fun of Delilah and E, and you didn’t jump in to take either of them down with an obnoxious joke.”

“Is that a crime? And my jokes aren’t obnoxious.”

“They most certainly are, and from you, it’s a federal offense. There’s also the issue of your eyelid.” He narrows his deep brown eyes at me until it feels like I’m being hypnotized, then he faces my brothers. “Lennon’s eyelid is twitching, and he’s plastered to the sofa.”

Guess Max and I aren’t the only Bower boys who are tattletales.

“It’s a chaise lounge,” Des says, walking over.

“It’s pronounced longue not lounge,” Cal says. He studies the piece of furniture I’m trying to disappear into. “But I thought it was more of a divan.”

My four brothers gather around me, not looking at my face, just analyzing the stupid sofa as though it’s an archaeological find.

“Tough call,” E says. “It’s a lounger and has arms on both sides, but one arm is shorter. My vote is divan.”