Page 25 of Bottle Shock
She gasps, pressing a finger to her lips. “You can’t tell Dad!”
He zips his lips dramatically. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
They exchange a conspiratorial wink before disappearing into the garage, leaving me shaking my head, grinning despite myself—like I don’t already know what they’re up to.
That car has been in pieces for years—his “retirement project.” Every time I see them tinkering out there, I think about how lucky Lily is to have that bond—and how she’ll never catch herself being a damsel in distress with a flat tire, thanks to my dad keeping her covered in motor oil and grease since she was a toddler.
In the kitchen, Shane’s standing at the stove in an apron that saysKiss My—the word “cook” replaced by a proud-looking cartoon rooster. I bought it as a joke when he graduated from culinary school. He hated it then, but now he wears it all the time.
“Hey,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Here.” He shoves a spoonful of sauce toward my face.
“What the hell, man?” I sputter as béchamel hits my tongue. “Maybe warn me first?”
He’s unfazed. “If I stopped stirring, it would’ve split.” He gives the sauce a few more aggressive whisks. “So? Good?”
I nod, still swallowing. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” He looks personally offended.
My gaze deadpans. “Pretty good, then. But don’t ever grab me like that again—or I’ll spit whatever you put in my mouth right back in your face.”
He scowls. “Well, now you’re just being a fucking dick, bruh.”
“Language,” our mom sing-songs from the doorway, sweeping in with a dish towel draped over her shoulder.
Shane and I exchange the look of two grown men caught red-handed.
“Sorry, Mom,” we say in unison.
She rolls her eyes but smiles, placing a bowl of salad on the counter. “I swear, you all revert to children the second you’re under my roof.”
“That’s because you baby us,” Shane says, stealing a crouton.
“I do not. At least not much.” She winks. “But if I did, it’s because you’re my favorite.” She catches his chin and gives it a squeeze. Shane grins smugly—until she adds, “For the next five minutes.” Sighing, she sets down her wine. “Ethan and Marisa called—they’re stuck in traffic on the pass. Layla’s studying for a lab, and Dominic’s on shift tonight. So it’ll be a smaller crowd.”
“Their loss.” Shane crunches loudly. “I’ll pack up the leftovers for them.”
Dinner unfolds in the familiar cacophony I’ve come to rely on. Elyse and Ariana are laughing over a book Ariana just finished, their heads tilted together as they stare at her phone screen. I hear the words milking farm and immediately decide I don’t need to know more. Across the table, Lily’s recounting her latest summer-camp drama to my mom with more hand gestures than words. My dad’s animatedly describing some fishing trip he’s planning, trapping Shane and mein the crossfire.
Elyse’s phone buzzes loudly against the table. Ever since her incident a few months ago, she’s been even more attached to it. She’d probably never admit it, but I think she lives in a constant state of worry that she’ll lose Dominic to something that happens on the job. They came so close to losing each other once—after nearly a decade apart, I’m sure they’re both still a little traumatized. Hell, I know I am. We all are.
Any worry I might’ve had eases when Elyse glances at the screen, her smile widening as she reads the caller ID.
“Scottie,” she says, before answering. “Don’t tell me you need another key.”
I turn back to Dad, ready to make a joke about his fishing obsession, but the scrape of Elyse’s chair stops me cold.
“Wait, wait, wait—slow down. What happened?” Her voice trembles.
The room stills. Even Lily quiets.
I hear her say the words townhouse and fire, and my stomach drops.
Elyse’s face drains of color. Her free hand presses to her chest, rubbing slow circles like she’s trying to soothe herself.
“What units?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She listens, nods once, and hangs up.
