Trying to step out of her diaper, Taylor nods. Sarcasm is lost on her. Too bad. It’s one of the few things I’m really good at. But no matter how many times she does her march step—lifting and lowering her legs—the diaper stays on her ankles. Finally, she sits down and kicks it off. It arcs in the air, flying across the room. Eggie, with an excited bark, gives chase.
Me, too. Minus the excitement. And the bark.
I’ve seen what our dog can do when he gets a hold of a diaper. It’s ugly.
And I’m in no mood to clean it.
“Egbert! No!” I yell at the same time Zoe lunges for Taylor and says, “Don’t even think about peeing on the floor.”
We’re both too late as Eggie, snarling in pure bliss, shakes the diaper so hard pieces of it fly. And Taylor does, indeed, pee in the middle of the living room floor.
4
I’m washing dishes when Devyn shuffles into the kitchen in a black tank top and blue boy-cut underwear.
“The coffeepot’s all set up,” I tell her.
Eyes half-closed, she grunts her appreciation, grabs a clean mug from the drying rack as she brushes past me and heads to the pot to turn it on. I’m scrubbing the pizza pan when the machine starts gurgling. A moment later, the scent of coffee fills the air.
I rinse the pan and set it in the rack, then let the dishwater out of the sink. When I turn to reach for the towel to dry my hands, Devyn’s staring at the pot like she’s been hypnotized by the slow drip, drip, drip of the magical brew.
Devyn hates mornings.
Except it’s not morning. It’s after ten p.m.
Guess it’s just waking up that she has a problem with.
Probably because it means facing reality once again.
On nights she works at the Red Dog, Dev tries to catch a couple hours of sleep after she’s done at the nursing home where she’s a nurse’s aide. She crashed the moment she got home, so Taylor and I ate without her. True to her vow of no bed, Taylor fought going to sleep despite my letting her lie down in my bed, reading her four bedtime stories and scratching her back for twenty minutes. When she finally drifted off half an hour ago, I didn’t even bother moving her to her own miniature bed in Taylor’s room. What’s the point? She’ll just find her way back to mine in the middle of the night, and this way, she won’t wake me.
Except for the dozen or so times she kicks me in the face.
That child is a flopper.
The dripping coffee slows and then stops but Dev doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink, just stands there, barefoot and sporting a serious case of bedhead, empty mug in her hands. Out of the three of us, she looks the most like Mom. Same dark hair and brown eyes. Same sharp cheekbones and heart-shaped face.
That’s not to say Mom didn’t leave her mark on all three of us. Dev looks like her, Zoe laughs like her and I have her sweet tooth.
And all three of us have crappy track records when it comes to guys.
Just keeping it all in the family!
When Dev continues to stand there, I take the cup from her hand—which does cause her to blink, once, so slowly I’m pretty sure she falls back asleep for the few seconds her lids are closed—then get the vanilla flavored creamer from the fridge. I pour some into her mug, top it with coffee, then press the cup back into her hands.
God. Sometimes I wonder if I was put on this earth just to make sure my sisters and niece are well-fed and hydrated.
Dev makes another sound, more groan than grunt, and lifts the cup to take a cautious sip. While she fuels up on caffeine and artificial colors, flavors and very real chemicals, I go about my business.
Except, everywhere I turn, there she is, in my way. Blocking the oven when I go to preheat it. Giving Eggie a pat in front of the cupboard that holds the cookie sheets. Holding the refrigerator door open with one hand, searching for something when I’m ready to get the cookie dough out.
I give her a gentle hip nudge to move her out of my way and she stumbles to the side like I just rammed into her with the car.
My sister. The drama queen.
“Creamer,” she grumbles, voice husky with sleep, as I pull out the mixing bowl.
“Right there,” I say, nodding at the creamer that’s on the counter right where I left it not three minutes ago.
Seriously. What would these people do without me?
Setting the bowl on the counter, I use my foot to close the refrigerator door Devyn’s left open, then take the plastic wrap off the dough. I turn to get a spoon from the drawer only to rear back in surprise to find Dev crowded even closer to me.
That’s the thing about living with sisters. They’re always borrowing your clothes, butting into your private business and invading your personal bubble.
“Give a girl some room, would you?” I say as I nudge her again—this time with the drawer to her butt—which moves her a few inches, just enough for me to get a spoon. “Don’t you have to get ready for work?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
At least she’s waking up enough to stop with the grunts, groans and grumbles. Before you know it, she’ll be speaking in full sentences.
“If you’re going to stay in here,” I say, “could you at least sit down?”
I’m not used to people being in the kitchen with me when I’m baking. I like my space. It’s why I bribed Taylor with two episodes of Paw Patrol earlier so I could mix up the cookie dough while the pizzas baked.
“What are you making?” Dev asks.
Not only has she not sat down, but she’s moved even closer to me and is on her toes, pressing against my back as she tries to peer over my shoulder. Doesn’t work. I’m taller than both of my sisters and Dev’s the shortest of us all.
“Chocolate chip cookies.”
Though I’m busy scooping rounded balls of dough onto the cookie sheet and don’t actually see her face, I swear I can feel her expression brighten.
Dev loves my chocolate chip cookies.
She lowers down to her heels. “Will they be ready for me to take to work?”
“Possibly. If you give me some room to work.”
She immediately crosses the few feet to the table and takes a seat.
Both my sisters appreciate my baking and are usually good at leaving me in peace to do it. Though tonight, for some unknown reason, Dev stays in the kitchen, sipping her coffee at the table, giving Eggie a belly rub with her bare foot while I fill the sheet tray, then sprinkle the dough with flaky sea salt. The oven beeps, letting me know it’s reached the right temperature, and I put the first tray in and shut the door. Set the timer, then start scooping dough for the second sheet.
“Heard you ran into Sam today.”
I go still at Dev’s words, my hand tightening on the spoon handle.
Guess there’s a reason for her sticking around after all.
“Zoe has a big mouth,” I mutter.
“Was it a secret?”
Sighing, I lay the spoon down and face her. “No. And it’s also not a big deal.”
It’s why I told Zoe in the first place. Just a calm, casual, oh, hey, guess who I saw after work? sort of thing.
Yeah, okay, so at the time I calmly, causally mentioned it, she just so happened to be walking out the door for work—and was already ten minutes late.