Page 7 of The Fake Out

Chris gave me a chin tilt, which was the warmest kind of welcome anyone but his girlfriend could expect. “Oh, hey, Gi. Didn’t realize you were here already.”

“I told you she texted when she got here,” Avery called from the entryway, where she was holding the door as Pop came in.

Chris met my eye, silently telling me not to offer my help. My father was stubborn, and any help we offered would be met with a brush-off. Avery was one of the few he let do anything for him.

I tried not to frown at the slowness of my father’s movements. He was without his walker, which showed that he was getting stronger, but it hurt to see him this way. He’d lost so much weight in the last few months. All his life, he’d been solid, but now his polo hung loosely off his frame. And he’d aged. Like instead of the damn, he can’t be sixty, it was more like damn, he’s sixty.

I took a deep breath and moved hesitantly toward him. “Pop.”

“I will not break in half, girlie.” Even though the tone had a bit of reproach to it, my dad smiled at me. It was virtually impossible to knock the positivity out of him.

I leaned in, attempting to give him a hug, but all I got in return was a shoulder squeeze. Sadness wormed its way into my brain, despite my best efforts. He smelled like home and the comforting scent of Old Spice. Missing was the hint of cigarettes that used to float around him, but that was a positive. I needed Pop around for a while more. I didn’t feel like I was ready to be without his support, so I was thankful he’d quit that shit and was taking care of himself.

“Smells amazing, as always, Em,” Avery said from behind us. “How can I help?”

Emerson angled close and brushed his lips over her cheek in greeting. Shockingly, my overprotective brother didn’t even react. Chris just grabbed a beer out of the fridge as Emerson gave instructions and Avery moved to drain the pasta.

A flash of jealousy hit me. But I wasn’t sure whether it was because Avery and Emerson fit in the dynamic of my family in this setting better than I did or because of how close the two of them were. Maybe it had more to do with the happiness that floated around the room so thickly it was suffocating.

“I thought we’d gotten past your dislike of Avery,” my father mumbled beside me.

Heart lurching, I spun to him and opened my mouth, but I quickly shut it again. I’d never disliked her. She was just tiny and perky and full of sunshine. And as someone who was none of those things, my insecurities ran rampant around her. Pissed was easier than vulnerable, so that had always been my default setting. But I had tried to swallow that back.

“Avery’s great,” I said. She clearly loved my brother and was there for him no matter what. That was all I could hope for him. She didn’t give a shit that he was a famous baseball player or how much money he made. She just adored Chris for who he was. That honest devotion was hard to find.

“Then don’t scowl at my girl, Gi.” Chris smirked. Which was weird. I wasn’t used to my brother being happy. Frowning, glaring—that was his norm. But the smile he shot me as he opened his beer was out of place. So was the way he took a sip and then passed the bottle over to Avery like he hadn’t spent decades being adamant about not sharing food and drinks. “You don’t need to spread cranky all over just because you broke up with Jake.”

I glared. I wasn’t cranky about Jake.

“Chris,” my father chastised.

At the same time, Emerson dropped the knife he was using to dice the chicken, sending it clattering to the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered, crouching and swiping it off the tile.

“You okay?” Avery asked.

“You know me.” He chuckled, the sound forced rather than easygoing like it usually was. When he moved to the sink, his green eyes met mine with an intensity I’d never seen from him before.

“I saw some of the partial designs for the new exhibits,” Avery chirped, breaking the weirdness that had settled over the room. “They’re perfection. The way you tied in the animals and the sponsors is incredible. Even unfinished, I’m blown over,” she gushed as she plated the pasta.

“See?” My brother frowned at me as he grabbed two plates and moved to the table. “I keep telling you that you’re good at that. I know shit, and I’m not biased.”

With a nod of agreement, Avery picked up the beer and another plate and followed him.

Since Mom died, Chris and Pop seemed to double their effort to be supportive of my creative side. She and I had shared the passion. My brother and my father were the sports guys. Art was our thing. It wasn’t so much unbiased support. It was more that after she died, they always tried to fill the void she left behind.

“I can’t wait to see them,” my father added, slowly shuffling over to the table with a bottle of water.

“Same.” Emerson’s deep voice rumbled through my body as he followed me into the dining room.

Before I could answer, Chris said, “Oh, Bambi, I Venmoed the grocery money for the week.”

With a look at Emerson, who stood in the doorway carrying two plates, I frowned and turned to my brother. “Why?”

“What do you mean why?” His dark brows pulled together. “That’s how we do food.”

“But you don’t live here…”

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