Page 17 of Loathe at First Sight

I hear the front door open and wonder who the hell would be here at this time.

Maybe it’s a murderer?

Does the thought of that really not freak me out?

That right there tells you all you need to know about where my headspace is at the present moment.

“Hello?” I hear a deep voice call out.

Immediately recognizing the voice, I tease, “No one’s home.”

From around the corner comes my brother, Dylan. Before I can get a word out, he wraps me in a big hug.

“Hey, it’s my favorite brother!” I joke as he twirls me around.

When he sets me back on the ground, he says, “I’m your only brother.”

“Well, yeah, but you’d be my favorite anyway,” I say with a wink.

I look at my brother who is basically the spitting image of our father. Tall. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Dylan may have him beat in his stature, though. He seems to be a bit more buff than our dad ever was.

“Look at you,” I tell him. “The ladies around town must love you.”

He grins. “I do alright.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I ask. “I just put on a fresh pot.”

“Uh, sure. That sounds great. But we may not want to take all day. Mom sent me here to make sure you found your way to the bar.”

I roll my eyes so hard that I can basically see behind me. “Does she really think I can’t get there by myself? I mean, I got back here last night. It’s just doing that same thing in reverse.”

“Liz, I don’t think she believes you can’t find it. I think she worries you will avoid it altogether.”

“I wouldn’t completely avoid it. I mean, Dad’s there.”

He laughs. “Mom still giving you the cold shoulder, huh? When are you two going to get over this whole thing you have going on?”

Waving my hands in the air like a crazy person, I shriek, “Ask her! She’s the one who practically hates me! You’d think I murdered her dog or something.”

“She doesn’t hate you. You know her; she’s just…”

“Impossible. Ridiculous. Mean.”

“I was going to say headstrong, but sure.” He laughs.

I hear the coffee pot shut off, so I walk over to pour us each a steaming mug. Handing one to him, we walk back to the living room to take seats on opposite ends of the couch.

“So, how are you doing?” He asks. “You know, after everything…”

“Depends,” I begin. “How much do you know?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“Oh, right. I’m sure Veronica told you.”

“Well, Mom told me.”

“Great,” I groan. “I’m sure she’s loving getting to tell everyone that it’s some type of karma or something.”

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