Page 7 of Perfect Pairing
After my sisters and I spent the previous evening first making cupcakes and then having a movie marathon, studiously ignoring the fact that I was gearing up to leave, we spent the morning packing. For all our cheerfulness the night before, it was a somber affair, where we only spoke when one of them asked if I was bringing something or where I wanted them to put another.
The squeezing discomfort in my chest, the band around my heart, only grew tighter as the day wore on. I had no idea how Amara made the decision to put an ocean between us.
At last, it was time to start loading the car because I’d be leaving the next day.
Naturally, when it involved heavy lifting, my sisters couldn’t get away from Mom and Dad’s house fast enough.
“If you stay and help, I’ll treat you to lunch at the winery!” I shouted after them.
Ella and Chloe only laughed, but Delia turned and shot me a wink as they hopped into her ragtop Jeep. “Fat chance, baby Brie. You know we eat there for free.”
“Those girls are awful,” Mom said as she followed me out of the house.
“Truly. Who in the hell raised them?” my dad quipped.
I couldn’t help but giggle, understanding my sisters not wanting to be here. Saying goodbye was tough.
“Are you sure you have to go now?” Mom asked as she loaded a basket of linens into the backseat of my car. “Why can’t you stay until after the Fourth?”
“Because I want to get down there and get settled before my apprenticeship starts,” I gently reminded her, like I had every day for the past several weeks.
“But it won’t be the same without you,” she pouted, looking so much like Delia from the day before that I nearly laughed.
If anyone ever wondered where we got our dramatics, I’d just point them in Lena Delatou’s direction.
“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” I told her. “But I doubt you’ll even notice I’m gone.”
“Oh, we’ll notice, all right,” my dad said as he walked out of the house carrying two of my suitcases. “No offense, honey”—he looked at Mom—“but you can’t cook for shit.”
My mom pressed a hand to her chest, mouth dropping open in what I knew was mock outrage. “That’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think,honey?”
Dad chuckled as he hefted the luggage into the car then turned and pressed a kiss to Mom’s brow. “You know I love you. I didn’t marry you for your skills in the kitchen.”
“Then why did you?” she asked.
My dad’s eyes darted in my direction, and he leaned in, whispering something in her ear that had my mom giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Gross,” I said, though I couldn’t help but grin. Their love was my favorite, the benchmark against which I measured my own relationships.
Then again, I’d never actually had a serious boyfriend. I’d had situationships in high school that fizzled out before they ever really started, and I’d had a few flings during culinary school, but no one had ever really caught my eye in a way that made me wantto push for more.
I was starting to wonder what was wrong with me, and my only saving grace from a deep shame spiral was the fact that each of my sisters were also single.
And the reminder that I was only twenty-one. I wasn’t exactly an old crone.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried about cooking,” I said as we trudged back inside for another load of my stuff. “You spend all of your time at the winery anyway, and there’s a perfectly good restaurant right there.”
In fact, it was more than perfectly good. Arguably, it was one of the top restaurants in the entire state of Michigan. Our head chef had overseen kitchens in places like Rome and Paris, New York, Los Angeles, Miami. The fact that my dad had been able to coax him into working for our small-town winery was nothing short of a miracle.
“Speaking of which,” my mom said to my dad conversationally. “Did the Wendts get settled?”
“Yes!” Dad said, his lips tipping up into a wide grin. “They arrived last week, and I spent a few hours at the new house helping them unpack.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Mom asked. “I would’ve driven down to help.”
My dad waved her off. “It’s alright, honey. There will be plenty of time for you to help them out.”
“Wait wait wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “Who are the Wendts?”
