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“Except your bladder,” Grandma says quietly and sardonically, making me laugh.
“What did she say?” Grandpa asks.
“Nothing. Sit down.” I help him back to the chair and go to Grandma. “What are you knitting?”
“A scarf for your father.” She beckons me into her ample bosom and squishes me. “Happy birthday, Grand Girl.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about you and Nick. Such a lovely boy.”
I know she’s sorry. She’s told me every time I’ve seen her.
“Such a shame,” Grandpa adds before going back to his paper. “Such a lovely boy.”
“It was for the best.”
“Says who?” Dad asks, entering.
I sigh, not wanting to rehash this again. “Me,” I say with certainty. “I say, Dad.”
He hums, looking most unconvinced, but thankfully, the front door opens, and I hear Clark calling out his arrival, saving me from my daily reminder of my questionable choices.
“Oh look, Clark and Rachel are here.” I give Dad a wide smile and go to the entrance hall to find my younger brother. “Thank you,” I breathe, throwing my arms around him.
“For what?” he asks, laughing.
“Dad was about to launch into all the reasons why I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
He huffs, pulling away. “Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Happy birthday.” Clark grins. “Shit, this means I’m only two years away from the big three zero.”
“Thanks.” I move on to Rachel, his fiancée, who’s another reminder that I’m doing things all wrong. “Good to see you.”
“Happy birthday.” She hugs me.
“Thanks. How are the plans coming along?”
Rachel breathes out her exasperation. “It’s nearly a part-time job.” Which is fine because she only works part-time in a chemistafter happily slashing her hours when Clark asked her to be his wife, and therefore the mother of his babies, and, therefore, when the time comes—and I don’t expect it to be long—a stay-at-home mum. Rachel won’t be working for much longer.
“Four weeks,” she confirms, letting Clark pull her into the lounge to say hello to our grandparents. I follow and take a seat on the couch.
“Clark, come.” Grandpa pats the arm of his chair for him to sit.
“He’s not a dog, Grandpa.”
“What do you make of this nonsense?” Grandpa points at the paper as Dad joins them, ignoring me. The boys doing boys things. I don’t bother finding out what nonsense Grandpa is talking about. I’ve long learned when my input is welcome. Like, never when it comes to business. I gaze toward the kitchen. That’s where I should be, and it’s where Rachel just went, and where Grandma would be if Mum would let her.
So I pull my phone out and start working my way through my emails. I also check when I last heard from Tilda Spector. Six weeks. I hum to myself, deciding I can wait until the conference next week to talk to her.
“Hey,” Clark says, dropping to the couch beside me.
“Done with boys’ talk?” I ask with a hint of a smirk.
“Stop it.” He nudges me in the arm. “Why don’t you stop being so stubborn and let me talk to him?”