I’ve never heard Buzz or Tripp be anything but factual and blunt.

“Your brother has his hands all over my food.”

Next to me, the man himself shrugs. “The last time I stole her bread, she threatened to stab me with her butter knife.”

No big deal.

So casually just putting that out there for them to judge me.

Internally, I groan and want the floor to swallow me whole.

“Is there a reason you’re touching her plate, son? Haven’t you got enough food on your own—are we greedy now?” Mr. Wallace sets his utensils down, intent on lecturing his grown, firstborn offspring.

“Dad, you know I have to eat nine thousand calories a day to stay in shape. If Buzz is going to insist on feeding us rabbit food, I have to resort to subterfuge.”

Rabbit food.

Subterfuge.

I almost laugh out loud.

“Tripp Robert Wallace.” Their mother’s tone means business; she is clearly embarrassed at her oldest son’s attempts to take food off a guest’s plate at the dinner table.

Chew, chew. “Robert is Trace’s middle name.”

Buzz snorts. “No it’s not.”

“Well it’s not mine.”

“It’s not?” Mr. Wallace’s brows furrow, but then he shrugs and continues eating.

True laughs.

“For one second, can this entire evening not be about you?” Mrs. Wallace directs her question at Tripp. “Your brother just returned from his honeymoon with his bride—”

“You mean the honeymoon I wasn’t invited to?” Tripp blurts out, glaring at his brother.

“Get married and go on your own damn honeymoon,” Buzz counters, fist-bumping my cousin. The pair of them gesture as if their knuckles explode like dynamite.

“Yes dear and we want to hear all about it.” Their mother pats her newly wedded son on the top of his hand, giving a pointed look to Tripp. “That is why we are here.” Behave.

Tripp grunts, digging into his lasagna, arguing forgotten as he puts the first mouthful onto his tongue. Moans.

“Stop,” True commands. “If I have to listen to you eat, I will punch you.”

“True Wallace!”

“What, Mom! He’s loud! We can all hear him.” Tripp’s sister purses her lips and says, “Chandler, ever since we were kids, he’s always been a loud chewer. You don’t want to be around when he eats cereal or soup, you will lit-er-rally want to murder him.”

“True!” Mrs. Wallace exclaims again, horrified at her daughter’s aggressive banter.

“What? You know he slurps the milk on purpose to piss us off.”

Tripp sucks the lasagna noodles into his mouth.

“Oh my god, I swear…” His sister glares.

“Kids!” In an attempt to reestablish order, their mother bangs her fist on the table, then giggles, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Chandler. It’s not normally like this.”

“It’s always like this,” their dad pipes up between bites. “Usually worse, but this one has been in the Maldives so he hasn’t been around to make trouble, while this one”—Mr. Wallace points his knife at Tripp—“makes headlines.”

I shrink down in my seat.

“Roger, don’t embarrass poor Chandler!”

“Yeah, don’t embarrass poor Chandler,” Tripp repeats, nudging me under the table with his massive leg.

I swat at it where no one can see.

He swats back and I feel their sister’s eyes boring into me.

It’s at this point I know she knows we’re fooling around, playfully hitting each other under the table. True knows we’re screwing around, though I have no idea how I came to be screwing around with Tripp with our hands beneath the table—a man I clearly do not like but seem to be flirting with right in front of his family.

I blush.

“This is a family dinner, not a round of grab-ass.” True punctuates her statement with an eye roll, though her lips are smiling around the lettuce leaves jammed into her mouth.

Mrs. Wallace blanches. “Please swallow your food before you begin speaking.”

“Hashtag always momming so hard.” Buzz laughs.

Tripp skewers his brother with contempt. “What did I tell you about saying the word hashtag out loud? It is not a thing.”

“You’re not a thing.”

“You’re not.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

They do this back and forth, like petulant children, for all of ten seconds before Roger Wallace finally slams his fist on the table.

The room is silent.

Then.

My cousin parts her lips with a grin. “Who wants to see some pictures?”

All us women ooh and ahh at their gorgeous photos—pictures of their incredible meals, breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Pictures of the beach, the water, the pool. Themselves dressed up for dinner. Dressed down for wakeboarding. Buzz with a dolphin at the aquatic center, Hollis with a Mai Tai and a tropical flower in her windblown hair.

They’re sunburnt and carefree.

“…and I got one of those pedicures where the fish eat the dead skin off the bottom of your feet,” Buzz is telling his mom—loudly—from across the table.

Tripp’s body stiffens.

“You did what?”

“I said, I got one of those pedicures where the fish eat—”

“I heard what you said!” he bellows. “That’s what I was gonna do!”

I look back and forth between the two of them, confused. When was Tripp going to have fish eat the dead skin off his feet? Um…that makes no sense.