Page 61 of Forty, Flirty & Fall Inn

"You can do this," I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror."It's just family game night.With your entire family.Who will definitely ask about Luke.While you sit there knowing you're a fraud who hacked his dating profile and is using him to save your inn."

My reflection doesn't look convinced.

The nearly November evening is doing that Pacific Northwest thing where it can't decide between drizzling and misting, so it's doing both, creating a fine spray that makes everything look like a watercolor painting.

Through the fogged windows, I can see my childhood home—a Seattle craftsman that my parents have maintained with the kind of devotion usually reserved for religious artifacts.

My phone buzzes with a text from Claire:WHERE ARE YOU?Mom made your favorite dip!

Of course she did.

My mother weaponizes food the way other people weaponize guilt.

Actually, she weaponizes that too.

I grab the bottle of wine I brought—the good stuff, because if I'm going to be interrogated, I'm going to be interrogated while slightly buzzed—and make my way up the familiar walkway.

The door opens before I can knock.

"Finally!"Mom pulls me into a hug that smells like garlic and judgment."We were starting to think you'd gotten lost."

"I know how to find my childhood home, Mom."

"Do you?Because you haven't been here in two months."She ushers me inside, already fussing with my hair."You look thin.Are you eating?"

"I'm eating."

"Cereal doesn't count as eating."

"I eat more than cereal."

"Goat food doesn't count either."

"Mom, Buttercup doesn't share her food.She's very territorial about her alfalfa."

We enter the living room, where the rest of the family has already assembled around the coffee table.

Dad's in his lucky Seahawks jersey—the one he claims helps him win at Scrabble despite zero statistical evidence.

My older sister Harper's perched on the arm of the couch like a corporate vulture, while her husband Ben sorts game pieces with the intensity of someone diffusing a bomb.

My little sister Claire is wedged between throw pillows, her pregnancy bump now prominent enough to have its own zip code, while her own husband David rubs her feet with the dedication of a man who knows happy wife equals happy life.

"She's here!"Claire announces unnecessarily."Sage graced us with her presence!"

"I said I'd come."

"After we threatened to kidnap you," Harper points out.

"Kidnapping is such a strong word."I settle into my usual spot on the floor, muscle memory from twenty-plus years of family game nights."I prefer 'aggressive relocation.'"

"Wine?"Dad offers, already pouring before I can answer."You'll need it.Your mother's been preparing conversation starters."

"Frank!"Mom swats him with a dish towel."I have not been preparing anything.I'm just naturally curious about my daughter's life."

"She made index cards," Harper stage-whispers.

"Traitor," Mom mutters.