“Being loving.”
“Stop it.”
“No.”
Dad’s grip tightens around mine. Mayhem sighs dramatically, but he doesn’t pull away, and for a few seconds, the three of us sit linked together across Dad’s battered desk. Exactly as we’ve been since Mom died.
And now it’s all different, because somewhere outside the city, in a commune with possible alpacas and questionable plumbing, our sister is waiting to find out whether there’s room for her in our family.
Nobody lets go of hands immediately, but Mayhem is the first to pretend it never happened, obviously. He pulls his hand free, reaches for his coffee and takes a long drink.
“Right,” he says. “That was enough emotional vulnerability for one decade.”
Dad releases me more slowly. “You’re the one who started it.”
“I absolutely did not,” Mayhem sa
