At the sound of her name, Beauty releases a whimper of anticipation and wags her tail so hard that it bangs between mine and Lindy’s legs.

“Here you go,” Lindy says, dropping a piece of turkey on the floor for my dog. She lifts a sandwich and hands it to me. “Smell it before you eat it. Is it the best thing you’ve ever held to your nose or what?”

“You’re so weird,” I complain but do as she instructs. “Smells spicy.”

“It’s the dill-jalapeno pickles chips I was telling you about. They’re perfection. Now taste it.”

Ever the dutiful brother, I take a bit of the sandwich. My eyes flutter closed at the explosion of flavor on my tongue. “Who knew pickles elevate a regular sandwich to somethingamazing?”

“Me,” she says brightly. “And my customers at The Laundromat.”

I can’t help but smile. When my sister opened a local laundromat in town, she decided to sell sandwiches and sodas for people to snack on while they waited for their laundry. Now, she runs a gourmet sandwich shop out of the front of the building, and the laundry services are in the back. She still just calls it the laundromat, though, and word-of-mouth is the only way customers find her. It’s the best kept secret in Maine.

She opens a cabinet to grab a glass and shrieks when the door falls off.

“Sorry about that. The cabinets need to be replaced.”

“Along with everything else,” she mutters. “You’ve been here for two weeks, and you still haven’t called a contractor to do renovations? Now’s the time, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” I tease. “I’m your brother. Stuck with you whether I like it or not.”

She pouts. “Don’t even. You’re my twin. My best friend since birth.”

“Riiiight.”

“Hey,” she says, planting her hands on her hips, “Even though we have different friend groups, we’re still best friends. Say it!”

I grimace but recite the vow we made in the third grade when our friend groups started to diverge. “Twins for always. Best friends forever.”

“And?” she prompts.

I sigh. “And ever and ever and ever and ever.”

She beams at me. “Doesn’t that make you feel warm and gooey inside?”

I roll my eyes. “Mm hmm. I feel like a roasted marshmallow.”

She reaches into her bag. “I know what’ll put a smile on your face—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “Pickles?”

She glares at me. “Don’t say ‘pickles’ in that tone ever again.”

I hold my hands up in apology. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disparage your amazing gourmet pickles. What do you have for me?”

Her face lights up like the Fourth of July, and my face splits into a grin in return. Her passion for pickles is something to behold. “Dill-Habanero Pickle Chips. They’re spicier than the jalapeno chips, but you can handle the heat.” She hands me a jar, and I can see the onions, mustard seeds, peppers, and English cucumber slices in the brine.

“Thanks, sis,” I say, crossing the kitchen to put the jar of pickles and the sandwich tray in the refrigerator. “You’ve brought enough food to feed me for the week.”

“Can’t let you and Beauty starve, now, can I?”

“Actually, I made you a gift.” I cross the living room to reach into my bag of yarn. I pull out a green crocheted pickle with button eyes and a smiley face.”

She claps her hands before reaching out for it and clutching it to her chest. “You made me a pickle?”

“An emotional support pickle,” I tell her. “It’s a thing.”

She nods. “It’s nice to know that others appreciate the perfection of a pickle.”