Page 35 of All of You

I tossed my bag on my bed, the same single bed I’d grown out of my sophomore year of high school when my growth spurt had hit.

“Yeah, that.”

I looked over at her with her hands on her hips, her loose dress bowing out over her belly. Wait.

“I’m evidently not the only one with some explaining to do, Bridgette Michelle,” I said, and stood, placing my hands on my hips and swiveling my neck in an exaggerated move.

Her face reddened. “Don’t you dare suggest that me being pregnant is the same as you dating an A-list celebrity.”

Her blue eyes were wide, lashes darkened with mascara to make them even more noticeable, her blond hair typically wavy and beautiful. Both she and Bea could have been beauty queens if they’d ever wanted to be.

“Right. Because a new life is far less interesting than my dating life,” I said, shaking my head in mock scorn.

“Oh, come on. You know I want like six kids, and Bat said he’s along for the ride.”

Yes. My sister called her husband Bat as in Batman because she said he looked exactly like Christian Bale playing Bruce Wayne.

He doesn’t.

But Bat, or Walt Miriam as his parents had named him, was happy enough with whatever Bridgette called him because he was completely gone on my oldest sister. He’d literally said as much to me the day of their wedding three years ago. He’d said, “Ben, how’m I going to survive a lifetime with her? She bends me out of shape so bad, I’ll be twisted in knots the rest of my life.”

I’d had no response, not sure whether that was a good thing or not, but when I saw his face as she appeared at the end of the aisle and heard him whisper “oh, thank God,” I’d known he thought the knots were a good thing.

“Well, good for you and Walt, Bridge.”

I sat on the edge of the small bed and pulled off my shoes, then slid my feet into the house shoes I always wore when at home. My mother was laid back—just like my dad—but one thing she had no tolerance for was dirty shoes tromping around her floors. It was the only time I ever heard anyone use the word tromping.

“Tell me.”

She crossed her arms over her belly, not yet big enough to act as a shelf like it had at the end of her first pregnancy, and she pursed her lips. She gave me the look I knew too well—the exasperated, my little brother is annoying me, but I’m going to get my way, look.

“Yes, I am dating Whit Grantham.”

Her nostrils flared slightly, her lips flattened as her eyes fluttered, and then, it started.

“What! How? When? Where? How did this happen? Why? What is she like? Is she as pretty in person? Is she stuck up? Are you sleeping with her?”

Just then Bea poked her head in, her equally long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, the same way she’d worn it since I could remember. She quirked an eyebrow in question.

“I just told Bridge?—”

“He’s dating Whit Grantham! Can you believe this?”

Bea gave me a puzzled, amused look, and shook her head. “What?”

I stood and pulled Bea in for a hug. My sisters were sturdy girls, medium height, nothing you’d call waifish, but Bea had always seemed slight in some way. I hugged her to me. And she squeezed me back, then released.

“Good to see you,” I said, genuinely feeling it, followed by the chaser of relief that I really did mean it.

It wasn’t so long ago I’d hardly meant anything I said, especially to those closest to me.

“I am going to pull your leg hair out one by one if you do not sit your narrow butt down and tell me what is going on.” Bridgette was fast reaching her breaking point.

I ducked my head, remembering her slew of questions. “I met her a couple months ago—she did a concert at the base, and I gave her a tour. She also happens to be related to a friend of mine. We went to a charity event a few weeks later, then another one, and since then, we see each other regularly. She is prettier in person, she isn’t stuck up, and that’s none of your business.”

“I can’t believe my brother is dating Whit Grantham. Do we get to meet her? Also, why did Bea get a hug and I didn’t?”

I laughed at her, enjoying the familiar barrage that was being in a room with Bridgette Holder-Miriam. I pulled her to me and squeezed, then released.

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