I let James take Sammy back home with him after he pointed out that I'm in no state to parent tonight and would probably end up accidentally leaving my reptile-child at the bar.
It's clear James was right as my sisters and I pretty much close down the place and stumble out to the parking lot. The boys all left a long time ago and so Annie offers to act as designated driver and get us all back to Emily's house. Normally I wouldn't think anything of it, but after what James mentioned I can't help but find it suspicious.
We're all tipsy (besides Annie) as we file into her powder-blue pickup truck. We stumble, taking twice as long as usual to climb in because we can't stop laughing over the story Amelia told us of Noah getting laid out by security on tour. Apparently he had forgotten his badge and the security guard didn't know he was Amelia's husband as he opened her dressing room door.
I can't tell if I'm more drunk on alcohol or laughter.
Annie gives her best attempt at a stern attitude as she corrals me and Amelia into the bed of the truck. "Keep your butts on the floor." She points a menacing finger at us after slamming the gate shut.
"Yes, ma'am." I give a serious salute, making Amelia lose it, laughing all over again.
Emily, our mother hen, gets prime seating in the front with Annie.
As we drive, Annie rolls down her windows and cranks the Chicks so Amelia and I can hear it too. It feels so good to be home surrounded by my sisters that I'm almost guilty about it. They don't know why I'm back, not really. They don't know that I wasn't tough enough to hack it in the city. That for all my shouting about craving more than what Rome could give me, I couldn't stand being away from here. The city was wrong for me in ways I never could have predicted.
And I don't know what that says about me.
The wind whips through my hair and I tip my head back, eyes on the sky so I can finally see the sparkling stars I've been dreaming about since I left Rome. Except . . . they're not there. I wait for my vision to adjust, but it must be too cloudy to spot them tonight. That's fine. Not taking it as a bad sign or anything.
A little later we pull up to Emily and Jack's house, filter out of the truck, and stumble up the porch stairs. The last time I was on this porch I was sobbing onto Emily's shoulder and confessing I wanted to quit culinary school and come home. She's the only one who knows I ever wavered in New York. And now that I have this job at the Huxley restaurant, I can't decide if I'm grateful that she encouraged me to go back and finish my degree or if it was a mistake.
"Honey, we're home!" Emily yells playfully once we walk through the door.
"We?" Jack says, coming around the corner holding their little cat, Ducky. He's in a pair of athletic shorts, a vintage Dodgers sweatshirt, and the glasses Emily is literally obsessed with. When Ducky sees us she jumps from Jack's arms and scurries down the hall to hide on their bed.
Jack doesn't drink alcohol, so even though he does go with us to Hank's occasionally, it's not as often as Emily and the rest of us. According to her, he mostly uses these Friday nights at home alone to write whatever mystery book he's currently working on. Jackson Bennett (as we learned last year) is also the New York Times bestselling author AJ Ranger. Thanks to his asshat of a dad who leaked Jack's identity before he was ready, the secret is out. Emily says Jack has really made lemonade out of those sour lemons his dad gave him and embraced the spotlight. He's been on morning talk shows, had an epic book tour, and still loves teaching in our small town.
But no matter how famous Jack is now, he continues to treat my sister with the love and affection of a man who knows he doesn't deserve her.
And because my sisters and I live on the same wavelength, they know to jump in front of me like a wall as I crouch behind them. In the next minute they split theatrically and I pop out with jazz hands. If I had confetti, I'd throw it.
To his credit, Jack actually does look excited to see me, even though I know he probably doesn't care all that much. I get a nice big hug and a Glad to have you home, Maddie.
"Aw, yay! Hugs are great." Emily is physically pushing Jack toward the front door. "Okay now, out ya go."
"But I live here."
"Of course you do, big guy! But get out. The girls are spending the night."
He breathes a laugh, used to Emily prioritizing us like we are her children. "Just a minute. Are you drunk?" He twists around, cradling her face in his hands, assessing her.
She melts and holds up her fingers to signify an inch. "A smidgen."
Fun fact: Jack is the only person in this entire world I've ever seen Emily melt for. She's still as feisty and hard-headed as ever, but I've also noticed something new in her since she found Jack. The two are soft with each other. She lets him help her in a way that she absolutely won't let anyone else. Not even me, her favorite sister.
Just kidding. Well, sort of.
Emily doesn't actually pick favorites, but we are closer on a friend level than she is with any of my other siblings. We share the kind of bond that Annie found in Amelia and Noah has with James.
Jack grins. "Give me a minute to pack a bag," he says, kissing Emily's forehead. "I assume I'm off to Noah's?"
"Go to my house instead," says Annie. "Otherwise Will is going to act like a sad, left-out puppy and show up here."
"And Noah would much rather have alone time," Amelia adds.
A few minutes later, after filling a big glass of water for Emily and making her promise to drink it, Jack is driving off. It's only us sisters, reunited and happy and tipsy.
"Okay, Chef, tell us everything about this restaurant!" says Emily, coming back from the kitchen with a bottle of white wine in one hand and clutching four empty glasses by the stems in the other. She sets the bottle and glasses on the coffee table and then snuggles in between me and Annie on the couch. From her seat on the floor, Amelia fills the glasses.
"There's nothing to tell. Let's talk about your book instead, Emmy Gold!" Emily, in an amazing turn of events, had been secretly writing the most delicious romance book over the last few years. Jack encouraged her to finish it, and after a few bumps in the road she signed with her dream agent and publisher. The deal announcement went out last month, surprising us all with her cute pen name. Have I mentioned how ridiculously successful my sisters are? And then there's me . . .
"Publishing moves at a snail's pace, so the book won't come out for at least a year. Your new restaurant, however, opens so soon!" She's fizzing with excitement. "And I know nothing about it because you've been so damn busy we haven't had a chance to talk about it."
I have been busy over the last four weeks, picking up as many odd jobs as possible to store up some cash in case I screw up this chef job.
"But it paid off because you graduated!" says Amelia, bumping my knee.
"Yes, she did!" Emily smothers me in a hug. "I'm still mad they didn't have a ceremony, though."
Again, guilt tugs at me. "Yeah, it's too bad. What do you want to know about the restaurant?" I ask, trying to change the subject as quickly as possible.
"First, what's it been like working with James?" Emily asks with an odd sparkle in her eyes. "I don't think I've ever seen you guys interact without picking at each other."
I shrug. "We haven't."
Amelia hands each of us a glass of wine. "Picked at each other?"
"No. Worked together." I sip my drink. "Until tonight, we hadn't talked since his initial phone call where he offered me the job. Tommy took over all communication after that." Except for tonight, when we sat together at the bar and . . . became friends? I'm still not sure what to make of that. Or why my heart rate accelerates when I think about the way he smiled at me.
"That's so weird," Emily mumbles. She's lightly swirling her wine around the glass and staring into it like it's a crystal ball.
"Why is it weird?"
Her eyes pop up to me as if she didn't actually mean for me to overhear it. "No reason. Just thought he'd want more involvement since it'll be his restaurant . . . and he hates Tommy, so I'm surprised he trusts him enough to work on this. With you."
I note the special emphasis but am distracted when out of the corner of my eye I see Annie raise her wineglass to her lips. Her throat bobs lightly as if she's just taken a sip, but something about the gesture doesn't seem real. Normally Annie winces slightly after each drink, because even though she tries to like it, she still mostly hates wine. She didn't wince after that sip though. Interesting.
"So Nancy's old greenhouse is being turned into the restaurant, right?" Nancy is James's late grandma.
"Yeah. Supposedly, most of the renovation is already finished. If it's half of what Tommy has described to me, it'll be beautiful."
"I've seen it," says Annie. "And I can confirm it's gorgeous and will be a huge hit."
They decided to keep as much of the original structure as possible, just replacing anything that had major damage, reinforcing the parts that needed it. The greenhouse itself is where the dining room will be, and there is an entirely new space off the back that will house the kitchen and chef's quarters. It was such a relief to learn I'd have somewhere of my own to live when I came back and didn't want to intrude on any of my siblings.
"So what are the featured menu items going to be?" asks Emily with an overeager look in her eye. My chest tightens. This is not a topic I'm ready to discuss.
But the last thing I want to do is trigger Emily's radar either. . . .
"Um, I was thinking of keeping it simple and tossing in some real crowd-pleasers: Kraft mac and cheese and dino nuggets," I say easily to cover the wild beat of my heart. Because the truth is, I've been in a creative freeze and haven't been able to come up with a single dish that has felt right. And it's killing me.
The kitchen used to be my refuge, the one place where everything quieted down and I felt most like myself. Cooking was my escape, my therapy, my joy. It was something that was wholly mine. But lately? It's felt hollow. Like stepping into a room I used to love, only to find it's cold, the lights are off, and there's plastic over the furniture.
I want that warmth back.
Emily laughs, but I can tell the type A planner in her is not appeased. "And is there going to be a new menu each week, or will it stay the same through the season?"
I clutch Emily's arm. "Wait, the menu has to change at some point?"
Her smile flattens. "I'm being serious, Maddie. It seems like you have a lot of unanswered questions still and the opening is in what? Like three months?" I can see bullet-pointed task lists unfurling behind her green eyes. "What about logistical stuff like bookkeeping? Who's going to be in charge of all that? Or hiring the staff? Will you—"
"Emily." I shoot up from the couch when my heart drives too painfully against my ribs. "I've got it all under control, okay?" But I don't. I really don't. And I hate that she knows me well enough to see that I don't.
I should have had all these questions figured out by now, but I'm someone who tends to wait until the last minute in life. I operate out of chaos piles and at least fifty open tabs on my laptop. I've even been known to write a new recipe idea on the back of a grocery receipt because I know that if I wait to go find paper I'll get distracted along the way and forget the idea completely. So why did I think it would be a good idea to become the executive chef of James's restaurant? And is everyone watching from the sidelines, waiting for the moment I fail?
I walk into the kitchen and set my empty wineglass in the sink, turning when I hear footsteps behind me. Emily gives a wobbly smile and nose scrunch. "I'm sorry." She closes the space between us and hugs me tight. "I didn't mean to turn into the efficiency robot . . . I just–"
"Know me? And are you worried I can't do this?"
She pulls back, gripping my shoulders and catching my gaze. "No! Not at all. I know you can do this—I also know that the creative side of your brain likes to take up all the space sometimes and doesn't leave much for the administrative side. But you're a culinary school graduate! I shouldn't have assumed you don't already know how to do all of this. Clearly you do. I'm sorry, and I won't butt in anymore."
Clearly I don't.
I am terrified I'm going to fail—making it the worst failure of my life, because it won't just affect me, I'll bring James down with me.
And equally terrifying: What if I never get my refuge back?
"Hey," says Amelia in a whisper, popping into the room. She glances over her shoulder. "We only have a second while she's in the bathroom. But . . . have y'all noticed anything about Annie?"
"That she's only pretending to drink her wine?" says Emily, casually leaning back against the counter. "Yeah, she's been doing that for weeks."
"You saw that tonight too?" I ask.
Emily looks offended. "Of course I did. She never winces anymore."
I point at Emily. "Yes! I knew it!"
"And she took her beer with her into the kitchen about fifteen times during the last family dinner."
"That's because she was pouring it out. James saw her!" I say, excited to have inside information. "So she's pregnant, right?"
Emily nods. "Definitely."
"But she's not telling us?" Amelia is heartbroken at this prospect. "What are we going to do about it?"
"Nothing." Emily looks like the leader of a crime organization. Deceptively calm.
"By nothing, you mean somehow capture a sample of her urine so we can test it ourselves, right?" I glance between them. "Because I can do it. Don't ask me how—just know it can be done."
"No. We're not going to do a single thing. We're going to respect Annie's privacy and wait until she feels comfortable to tell us herself."
I grimace. "That doesn't sound like you."
"It's the new me. Respectful. Understanding of privacy. Patient . . ." While she's listing off her virtues, I'm rolling my eyes and making a yapping gesture with my hand. She finally notices and smacks it down. "Stop that!"
"Those are noble attributes, but so so boring. I miss slightly toxic Emily. Jack took her away from me." I go shake Emily's shoulders. "Give her back!"
"Give who back?" asks Annie from the doorway to the kitchen, glass in her hand—empty.
I pivot, slinging my arm around Emily's hip. "My old Celine Dion greatest hits CD. She's held it captive for too many years."
"I don't have it," Emily replies.
"Oh yeah? So if I go out to your truck right now, I won't find it in your CD sleeve?"
"Nope." But her eyes betray her as they dart quickly to Amelia.
I turn slowly on her and she cracks like an egg. "Fine, yes, I borrowed it! But it's so good. You can have it back next time I see you."
We all move back into the living room and pile onto the couch for the next hour so we can look at photos on Amelia's phone from her latest tour. I still regularly forget that she is a famous pop star, until these moments when I see pictures of her onstage surrounded by a sold-out stadium. Pictures of her backstage hugging mega artists who have shaped the music industry. But it's easy to forget all of that with her because to us she's Amelia . . . the Audrey Hepburn–obsessed woman who stole our brother's heart with her truly awful pancakes and has loved us like real sisters from day one.
After looking through photos, we all steal clothes from Emily to sleep in. Literally clothes, like T-shirts and leggings, because the woman doesn't own pajamas. Or she does, but her take on pj's is just silk lingerie pieces trimmed in lace. Around one A.M., we all four pile into Emily and Jack's king-sized bed like we're the family in Willy Wonka and my sisters pass out almost immediately.
I'm seconds away from sleep when Emily inches closer and whispers to me, "I'm impressed by how quickly you came up with that Celine Dion lie."
"Yeah," I say, staring up at the dark ceiling, wishing more than anything that I had been able to see the stars tonight. "I'm too good at lying."
And that's the most truthful thing I've said to anyone in a long time.
It takes me a while to fall asleep, and when I finally do I slip into a strange dream where James and I are back at Hank's with our knees interlaced again, but this time James smiles before tipping forward and kissing me.