Page 58 of Broken Strings

With an indulgent chuckle, Ford hoists a tittering Bug into his arms and heads in the direction of the massive playground my parents installed for their abundance of granddaughters.

The mammoth double front doors are thrown open and, almost identical to the day Summer first arrived here, my four sisters spill from within, racing one another to be the first to reach the car.

Bree, the oldest North sibling—by a whopping fourteen minutes that her twin Rachel will mention at any given opportunity—outmanoeuvres the rest, tugging the door open in record time.

“You’re here. You’re here!”

She reaches inside the car, physically tugging a wide-eyed Summer from the backseat, much to my amusement.

Cassidy, who’s a year older than me, arrives next, followed immediately by Rachel, with a very pregnant Alyse finishing the line-up while muttering under her breath, “Fucking animals.”

Bree draws Summer into her embrace, with my three other sisters following suit, and I’m wholly unable to stop myself from wrapping my own arms around the five strong, beautiful women I grew up with.

It’s Dad’s voice that rouses us from our long overdue moment of quiet gratitude.

“Dinner’s almost ready, folks. Come on in and wash up.”

As he returns the way he’d come, my sisters and I relinquish our hold on a smiling Summer. She looks around our group before tapping her index finger to her lip in playful contemplation. “Who’s cooking?”

“Dad.”

The girls answer in unison, confusion marring their features, until my hand snakes out to grab Summer’s, tugging her along behind me as we race towards the house. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s thinking what I’m thinking.

“Last one in cleans up after dinner.”

Their retorts are muted as we’ve already crossed the threshold, and we don’t stop until we’ve breathlessly entered the kitchen, only to find my parents bickering comically by the oven.

“I told you, it said three hours on a low heat after searing, not an hour on the max. It’s not the same thing, Sutton. I’m telling you.”

Mum is sitting at the kitchen island that is strewn with every dish, pot, and pan they possess with her arms crossed, a look of complete disbelief on her still stunning features.

On the marble countertop, there’s a large cooking tray with a positively gigantic slab of beef, or at least I think that’s what it’s supposed to be. It’s hard to tell, considering how blackened the outside is.

“I guarantee you, baby, the inside will be just fine. It’s like a delicacy. Barbecue charcoal flavour on the outside and all moist on the inside.”

My mum pops a perfect brow at him.

“Come on then, Mr Know-It-All. Carve it, and let's see who’s right.”

This banter between my parents is so commonplace that I can’t help but smile as we watch them interact with their signature teasing.

Placing the back of my hand over my mouth, I lean toward Cass, who’s just entered the room, and murmur, “Fifty quid on Mum being right.”

She snorts before deadpanning, “No deal. Mum’s always right, which you well know!”

Dad makes a big job out of sharpening his carving knife before adding more mess to the already destroyed kitchen, much to the amusement of everyone watching. Then he carves the meat slowly, a look of triumph on his dark features until bright red blood begins to ooze out onto the countertop.

Cutting his losses, he casually places the carving knife into the overflowing sink before turning to face his audience, an enormous shit-eating grin on his face.

“Who wants pizza?”

* * *

Dinner is a usual North family get-together–which is to say, it's fucking manic.

Following Dad’s announcement, Mum swept everyone outside to the oversized patio that had been made for just such entertaining. Two large rectangular tables run side by side, one clearly decorated for the next generation of Norths, and the adult table has already been set up with a platter of nibbles and wines.

Mum brandishes the menu for a local pizzeria, and within five minutes, the order has been placed for no less than ten pizzas and a plethora of sides.

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