Page 15 of Perfect Pairing
Now that I was home for a brief Christmas break, my mother was intent on smothering me with her unnecessary worries, asusual.
“Well, all that sugar can’t be good for you,” she said, locking her slender hand around my upper arm and dragging me into the kitchen. “Leon!” she shouted for my dad. “Come make Brie something to eat!”
“Why can’t you?” my dad shouted back. “I’m busy!”
My mother turned a conspiratorial smile on me. “Busy watching fishing videos, no doubt,” she said. “I swear, now that he’s thinking about retirement, all he does is dream about the day he can buy a boat and spend his days on the water.”
She sighed dramatically to punctuate her statement, and I giggled.
“Neither of you can cook anyway.”
“Brie Anne Delatou!” my mother scolded me, her grip on my arm releasing into a slap.
“What?” I shrugged. “It’s true.”
“Fine,” she pouted. “You can fend for yourself then.”
My sisters, who were already gathered in the kitchen, broke apart when we walked in, turning innocent looks on my mother.
Mom stopped dead in the center of the room, hands coming to rest on her hips, and said, “What were you four gossiping about this time?”
My sisters shared a look then broke into laughter. “Just discussing plans for the week now that baby Brie is home,” Ella said, waving a hand dismissively.
I narrowed my eyes at them, but Mom simply said, “Whatever” before she turned on her heel and headed down the long hallway off the kitchen, presumably toward Dad’s man cave at the opposite end of the house.
I moved deeper into the kitchen, aiming for the industrial-sized refrigerator along the outer wall—an appliance I knew they purchased for this house when they started construction on it two years ago solely because of me.
I wasn’t mad about it. The exterior was a sleek, shiny black with golden handles, and I pulled them both open to reveal shelves fully stocked with everything I could want and need. In truth, it was about as well equipped as the fridge back in our kitchen in Chicago. Without a word to anyone else, I started pulling ingredients free, and soon, the counter was piled high with the necessary components of my favorite stuffed French toast. It was a recipe I’d been working to perfect for years and finally recently nailed thanks to the help of my mentor.
“God,” Amara said, dropping herself onto one of the stools at the island. “I haven’t had good stuffed French toast in ages.”
My eldest sister, Chloe, slid onto the seat next to her, Delia and Ella bookending them. “Weren’t you just in Paris like…last week?”
“I wasworking,” Amara said. “And in France, they’re all about crêpes. Sometimes, I just need a thick slice of white bread stuffed with good old American cream cheese and a ridiculous amount of Brie’s blueberry compote.”
The rest of my sisters hummed in agreement, and I grinned as I set to work preparing our meal.
Conversation flowed easily even though it had been nearly a year—since the previous Christmas—since we’d all been in a room together. Picking up and leaving London while she’d been working on her MBA had been difficult for Amara, but since graduation, she had more free time. My other sisters lived locally,but the holidays wouldn’t have been the same without Amara, so I was grateful she’d been able to come home.
The kitchen with my family around me truly was my happy place. I lost myself in the frozen blueberries, locally sourced maple syrup, lemon, and vanilla simmering in a saucepan. I moved onto dredging the bread in the egg, milk, and vanilla mixture before placing them on the griddle in the center of Mom and Dad’s stove. The scents twined in the air around my head, soothing me in a way nothing else did. My sister’s voices were distant murmurs, but they didn’t try to pull me into the conversation.
“So whatisthe plan for this week?” I asked later as I plated everyone’s food. My sisters dove into their meals with gusto, moaning happily around forkfuls of fluffy toast topped with smooth cream cheese and a healthy pour of blueberry compote.
“The usual,” Chloe said with a shrug. “Kicking ass and taking names.”
We all broke into a fit of giggles, but I sobered quickly. “No, seriously. I’ve only got nine days, and Mar has even less. I want to pack in as much as I can.”
“Well,” Amara began. “There’s a school production in Traverse City tonight ofThe Nutcrackerthat we thought we’d check out. Maybe grab dinner and drinks in the city?”
“Birdie’s?” I asked hopefully.
Amara groaned, but my other sisters perked up at the mention of the relatively new restaurant in Traverse City. Amara’s reticence had nothing to do with the place itself—which served the best food in Traverse City—and everything to do with the fact that she used to hook up with the owner, Owen Lawless.
“Do we have to?” Amara asked.
Delia quirked a brow. “I thought you and Owen were friends.”
“Weare,” Amara assured us. “But I haven’t seen him since I moved to Europe. We text on occasion, but what if things are weird?”
