Page 119 of Butter My Biscuit

“Positive. What are friends for?” she says, sipping her drink as the overhead lights begin to fade.

Harrison

Babe! Grace said she would help you plan the wedding. Were you serious about two weeks?

Stephie

OMG! That would be amazing. I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t want it to be weird.

Harrison

She brought it up.

Stephie

Can you ask her to meet me at the warehouse tomorrow?

Harrison

Will do. Love you. London is about to play!

Stephie

Take some video for me. Love you!

I shove my phone in my pocket, just as London enters the stage, standing right in the center. I cup one hand around my mouth and yell for her, as does everyone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am super excited to be here. I’m London, and we’re The Heartbreakers.”

The crowd goes wild as she strums her acoustic-electric guitar and belts out notes I’ve never heard her sing.

Remi leans forward and screams, “I told you so!”

“You were right,” I say as some people in the audience sing along.

I’m not sure what shocks me more—the fact that my sister already has fans or that they have her songs memorized. When I glance around the room, it’s full of people moving their bodies and watching her band play. I have a proud big-brother moment. She has the magic and the talent, and I’m turned into a believer. I understand what Remi was talking about when she said London would be a fucking star.

Grace dances in front of me to one of the slow songs, and she turns and looks at me over her shoulder. I shake my head at her, and she laughs.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I say in her ear, touching her hip.

My sister’s set ends, and the sweaty crowd that was there for the band leaves the dance floor. The lights lower, and the dancing music starts.

I take Gracie’s hand and swing her toward me. “Want to dance with me?”

“If you let me lead,” she says.

“Be my guest.”

We two-step around the building, and I press her against me. It’s just like old times, when we were bored and wanted to do nothing but move our bodies. The songs change and fade into others. We don’t talk about anything serious, and the conversation is light, though there are eggshells sprinkled all around us. Somehow, we avoid them all. Have we been doing this all along? Playing this same game?

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

I meet her eyes. “Of course. Always.”

“Did you submit a question to Dear Kinsley?”

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