Page 1 of Forget Me Knot

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EDWARD SHARPE AND THE MAGNETIC ZEROS

DINAH

“You’re wearing the mint ones aren’t you?” Emory’s knowing tone chirps through the phone. A seasoned, clairvoyant mother.

“Underwear?” I smirk, despite the fact that I have no audience. “Nope. I went with the lucky, pink donut print today. Keepin’ things exciting.”

“No, Dinah. Not underwear,” she sighs, and if I had to bet, there’s an eye roll mixed in. “And I sincerely hope you’re not still wearing printed panties. You’re twenty-five years old.”

“Ew! Don’t say panties, Em. It’s a cringe word. Like moist or phlegm.” I hear Molly start chanting “moist moist moist”somewhere in the background.

“So, I’m on speaker, huh?”

“Yup,” Emory pops thep. “She’ll be chantingmoistall day now.”

“Your fault. Better thanpanties.” I shrug and smile. I love driving my big sister crazy, and I adore my niece possibly even more. “Hi, Molly Dolly!”

“Hi, Aunt Dinah! My panties have unicorns.”

“Jealous! I wish I had a pair,” I faux whine, because I will be buddies with this girl as long as she’ll have me.

My sister chuckles, and I hear when the phone switches from speaker to private. “Ya hear that, Dinah? You and the six-year-old both have printed…panties.” She whispers the last part as if she could hide the conversation we’ve been having in front of her precocious daughter for the past few minutes.

“Sounds like someone wants to be in our super exclusive club. How about I buy you a set of unicornpanties,”—I whisper, too, because the word really does give me theick—“for your next birthday. You’re never too old for prints.”

“And I’ll buy you a set of solid white, granny panties.”

“Deal.”

“So, you’re totally wearin’ the mint ones, though, right?” Emory acts as if we haven’t been debating underwear choices over our morning coffee.

“Does it matter what color my shoes are, Em?”

“Youare,” she chimes. I can’t see her, but I can picture her smug smile in my mind all too clearly. She’s probably applying the perfect lip line whilst pruning a flourishing herb garden and baking a cake for the PTA at Molly’s school. My sister is highly capable, always put together, and would never deign to wear patterned underwear under her perfectly shaped mom jeans. “I can always tell when you wear the mint tennies.”

I scoff but don’t rebuke her. She’s right.

I look down at my treasured mint Converse and do a little jig. They look adorable against the vintage pink floor tile of the bakery. They’ve seen better days and could definitely use a wash, but they’re tried and true.

“How can you tell?” I ask her, taking a seat on one of the high back counter stools and spinning in circles.

“You always wear white when you’re feeling fresh. Black when you’re sad. Lavender every time you finish one of your love-y books—”

“They’re called romances, Em,” I interject. “You can say it.”

“Bleh. Romance. Whatever.” A horn blares in the background.So, not pruning herbs then.“You’re a rainbow of feelings and shoes are your mood ring, Dinah Belle. And you wear those mint Converse every time you get excited about something. Am I wrong?”

“No. Of course you aren’t. I am wearin’ the mint ones. They’re lucky.” I sip my coffee and check the time. “I’ve gotta go soon. Dough should be proofed by now and those pretzels aren’t gonna twist themselves.”

“Okay. You sure you don’t need me there until tonight?” she asks for the fourth or fifth time this morning alone. “I can drop Molly off and head straight over. I’ll twist and knead and proof or whatever it is that you need.”

“And who, my dear sister, will feed and milk the llamas—”

“They’re alpacas, Dinah. And for the last time, I do not milk them.”

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