Page 266 of Branded
Because the weights I carried were already so damned heavy.
Seven
Cas
“And our colors are going to be peach and silver.”
That sounded…well, like something, but I had been raised with a mom and two sisters. It could be said, I knew a little about women—or at least enough about women that I knew to look to Margot and my mom for instructions on how to properly react to Kathy’s announcement about wedding colors.
Since they were both nodding vigorously, my mom going so far as to clap her hands excitedly, I smiled too, joined in with the “That sounds great”s of my brother and dad.
They were well-trained, too.
“What are you planning for food?” my mom asked.
“I think we might do a carnival theme,” she said. “Corn dogs, pretzels, a flavored popcorn bar, and a whole spread of fried things.”
My arteries cried out in worry, even as my belly gave a happy growl.
“And then,” Kathy said excitedly. “Johnny suggested a Pop-Tart bar, and we’re going to have those instead of cake. All sorts of flavors and toppings, so it’ll be like a sundae bar but with Pop-Tarts!”
In case it wasn’t obvious, my sister loved junk food.
But her doing jazz hands over Pop-Tarts was next level, even for her, and when I caught Sam’s eyes through the screen of the video call, it didn’t matter how much experience I had being raised with a mother and two sisters, keeping my laughter in was impossible.
Kathy glared at me through the camera. “No Pop-Tarts for you.”
I grinned. “You know you love me, and you know I love your food ideas. Even if I’m going to have to do a shit-ton of workouts to make up for it.”
“Hmph.” Her scowl was adorable. I’d seen it from almost the moment she’d been born, and it was no less cute now that she was a grown woman.
“And you know,” I said, “considering the amount of county fairs we attended as children, that I’m down for fried anything”—though my favorite was a fried peanut butter cup—“just like you know that all the strawberry Pop-Tarts are mine.”
A sniff. “Maybe we’re not getting any strawberry,” she told me churlishly. “I’m only getting you brown sugar cinnamon ones.”
Fake retching, I glanced at Margot on the screen. “Talk some sense into your sister.”
She reclined back onto the couch, video feed bouncing as she got comfortable on the cushions. “Nope,” she said with a smirk. “You know brown sugar cinnamon are my favorite too.”
I glared.
She blew me a kiss.
“Evil siblings,” I muttered. “Picking on your older brother.”
“That’s how our family shows love,” Sam chimed in. “None of the sappy shit.”
“Lies!” Margot said. “You’re sappier than the rest of us combined.”
Sam shook his head. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Do I need to bring up the book of poetry you wrote after your breakup with Jessica Sullivan?”
Kathy cackled.
I would have been lying if I said I didn’t do the same.
“Let’s hear more about Kathy’s wedding,” my mom said before the conversation could devolve further. She glanced toward me on the screen—something she’d only recently perfected because she’d only recently figured out how to get her and Dad on the camera without me and my siblings getting a lovely upshot of her nose. “There will be strawberry Pop-Tarts”—toward Margot—“and brown sugar cinnamon”—to Sam—“and s’mores, so no more complaining.”
