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“Oh.” My cheeks heat. “Of course.” What a dumb question. I’d just wondered if there was some funny story there.

“And it reminds me not to murder them when they piss me off,” she adds.

I smile and hand the photo back to her. “Brothers must be fun.”

“Oh, they’re something.” She tucks the photo back into her wallet. ”You don’t have any?”

“No. No sisters, either.”

“I always wondered what it would be like to be an only child. Hard to imagine when you’re smack in the middle of five, and a twin, too.”

“Overrated,” I tell her wistfully. “I always wondered what it would be like to have lots of siblings.”

“Overrated,” she says, and we each take a sip of our wine, smiling at one another.

I like her.

A lot.

“What about your parents? Are they cool?” I lean in and lower my voice. “Or chilly like Harlan?”

She glances at him, and her smile turns nostalgic. “He wasn’t always chilly.”

“I’m sitting right here,” he mutters.

Savannah ignores him. “What can I tell you? They wanted great things for us. They loved us the best way they knew how. They screwed up. We still loved them.” She laughs shortly.

“Sounds like most families I know.”

“Yeah.” Her smile fades. “Dad died when Harlan and I were fourteen. In a helicopter accident. Mom remarried shortly after. She lives just outside of Paris. So, it’s really just the five of us now.”

“Oh… I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your dad. I lost mine when I was seven. He also died suddenly. He was a tree cutter, and there was an accident at work.”

Savannah softens. “I’m sorry, too. I think that might be worse…? Not getting a chance to really know him…”

“I remember him, a bit. But not much. I have all these stories my mom has told me, and now I don’t know which parts are my own memories and what are the parts I’ve heard from her. The way she tells it, he was some kind of superhero. I think she wants me to remember him that way, but I have no way of knowing how much she made up.”

Savannah takes that in. Her eyes flick to Harlan, who seems to be listening intently.

“I think Mom did something similar,” she says. “It’s how they cope. Can you imagine having to walk your children through the grief of losing their father, then have the hard talks that come when they find out he wasn’t a saint? Wouldn’t it be tempting to just put him up on a pedestal and be done with it?”

I get what she’s saying. Mom did that, for sure.

But there’s something sad in her tone.

“Who knew we’d have so much in common,” I joke.

“Who knew,” she says kindly. And she doesn’t seem like she’s joking. She gazes at me thoughtfully. “And who knew my brother had such great taste in women.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you.”

“Please. You should see the one he brought home last time. That was years ago. God, what was her name?”

“Chelsea,” Jameson supplies.

“Yes.Thatbitch.”

“Savannah. We’re at the dinner table,” Graysen says seriously.