Page 2 of Everywhere You Look

SISTERLY LOVE

Luke

Five years ago…

“Why do they look so…slimy?”

“Because they are slimy, Luke. They’ve spent the last ten months spawning in goo inside my womb before being shot out of my vagina like a log flume.”

“You’re not really selling me on the whole “Hold my babies!” thing.”

“Oh, stop it. Come here, lay down with me.” My sister scoots over in her hospital bed, groaning as she goes. Hell, I’d be groaning too if I’d just shoved two whole humans out of my netherregions. A shudder runs through me at the thought, and I feel a little nauseous.

I’ll never understand how the patriarchy has dominated culture for the last thousand years when women are clearly the stronger sex.

I slide into the bed next to her, most of my body hanging off the edge. I’m six-foot-one and two hundred and thirty pounds; there’s not a ton of room for me to squeeze in here. When I’m settled in with my butt next to Gigi and one foot on the ground, my sister effortlessly passes one of the brand-new humans from her arms into mine.

“Holy fuck, Gigi. She’s so small,” I gasp as I cradle the baby. To say I’m the one cradling her is generous, though. Gigi settles the baby into my arms, maneuvering me until I’m correctly and safely protecting the baby’s teeny little head. A nurse comes by and places the other baby—because, of course, my overachiever sister had twins on her first try—on Gigi’s chest.

“You probably shouldn’t say ‘fuck’ around my daughters. And you were this small once upon a time, too,” she says in a low voice, her eyes trailing back and forth between each of her daughters.

“Yeah right. I was born quarterback sized.” I scoff.

“No way. You were smaller than my baby dolls. Iremember being so afraid that I was going to break you when they brought you home.” She strokes a fingertip down the tiny baby’s cheek and an image flashes through my mind. One of Gigi at eight years old, sitting on the couch with a horseshoe-shaped pillow on her lap and holding a very brand-new me. I don’t remember the moment, of course. I don’t think humans are meant to remember anything that happens before the age of three, but I know the image from the picture taped on Gigi’s fridge. One of the few mementos from our childhood that came with us when we left home.

Yup, we only had two small bags filled to the brim with clothes and some photos tucked into a King James Bible when an eighteen-year-old Gigi woke me up in the middle of the night and told me it was time for us to leave the compound in Idaho.

“I get that. I’m a little afraid I’m going to drop this one and she’s going to shatter. Or maybe splatter like mashed potatoes. She’s really gooey.”

“They’re both really gooey. I can’t believe they’re here,” Gigi says, tears brimming her eyes again. She’s been crying at the drop of a hat since the beginning of her pregnancy, so I’m used to it by now.

“How are you going to tell them apart?” I ask.

“Easy. Lemmie is the one in your arms. She’solder by one minute, so she’s going to have that air of wisdom about her. Mellie here,” she brings the baby in her arms to her nose and inhales deeply. “Has a freckle on her left butt cheek that’s shaped like Argentina. So, all I’ll have to do is peek in their diapers to know who’s who.”

I shake my head and laugh at the ridiculous cutesy, rhyming names my sister has given her poor daughters.

“Lemmie Lynn and Mellie May. You’re really not giving these girls a chance, are you?” It sounds like their last name should be Clampett, not Cannon. But what do I know? Hopefully, by the time they’re in school, The Beverly Hillbillies will be so far out of the cultural lexicon that the other kids won’t even know to tease them.

“Hey, shut your whore mouth,” Gigi hisses, trying to sound menacing but her laugh gives her away. “The names Lemmie and Mellie are cute as shit. Besides, they’re an hour old. It’s too early for you to make fun of them and give them a complex.”

“If I can’t say ‘fuck’ around the babies, you probably shouldn’t say ‘shit’ and ‘whore’. And besides, I don’t think cool uncles can give kids complexes. I think that’s a parent-specific scenario.”

“Yeah, well. Be careful what you wish for. All ittakes is one wrong turn down a dark and twisty road in my Subaru and these babies will be all yours,” she says, waggling her eyebrows as she quotes our favorite TV doctor, Meredith Grey.

“Don’t even joke about that!” I say, bumping her shoulder. “You didn’t go through finding a donor and IVF all by yourself just to kick the bucket and leave your kids to me. You were born to be a mother, Gigi. I, on the other hand, was born to be the fabulous gay uncle that slips them sugar when you’re not looking and pays for their college tuition with my big boy NFL salary.”

“You sell yourself short. You’d be such a good parent to these two if I pull aGrey’s Anatomyand get myself fucked up by a semi-truck. Who knows, maybe I’ll have another one before I’m pushing daisies. Name her Jellie Jam. If I leave you three of them, you can start a country band.”

“Or my own football team.”

Gigi barks out a laugh, then shushes softly when the baby in her arms stirs.

“Alright, I changed my mind. I’m not leaving my daughters to you so that you can raise them on a football field and set them up for a lifetime of concussions.”

I look at my sister, raising an eyebrow at her.

“You dolikefootball, don’t you?” I ask. Gigi gave up years of her life, taking me to practices, working odd jobs to pay for uniforms and team trips so I could focus on my game and get a scholarship. She’s the only reason I have the career I have today, and I’d hate to think she spent all that time not loving the game the way I do.

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