“What are you going to do?”

I toss my arm over my head, covering my eyes. “Get dressed, go to dinner with my family, and figure this out later.”

“That’s not really a solution.”

“I know,” I groan. “I’ll text him back. Just not sure what I’m going to say.”

I feel the weight of the bed sink as she settles in beside me. “What if you start with, ‘I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, I would like to talk, starting with coffee.’”

“I can’t have coffee,” I whine obstinately.

“You know what I mean. Keep it simple—you’re going to have to face the music sooner or later.” She pats me on the leg. “Get dressed—if we don’t get downstairs soon, your brother is going to bust through that door thinking one of us had a medical emergency.”

Probably. Tripp Wallace is such a drama queen.

I don’t know if you’re purposely avoiding me or just can’t find a way to get ahold of me?

That sentence haunts me as I sit at the table with my family, and I know I’m acting strange tonight because Buzz keeps giving me odd stares. He knows something’s off but can’t quite figure out what it could be, his radar up.

For example, he’s squinting at me now as he chews the lasagna our mother prepared and brought along for the meal, each of us kids too lazy and busy to prepare the food ourselves, Buzz and Hollis included.

“How are you enjoying your time off?” Mom asks Buzz, since baseball is not in season and he has a few months to be home and spend time with his wife.

“Good. I’ve gotten two houses renovated.” He stuffs a forkful into his mouth like a slob, sauce oozing out the corner.

I want to gag.

“He’s also decided to redo the laundry room at home, ripping it apart, but hasn’t had time to put the countertops back on the cabinets,” Hollis says, unamused. “Dust. Everywhere.” She pats him on the knee.

“I’ll get to it!” Then, under his breath he mutters, “Eventually.”

“Love you, babe. Just don’t start tearing apart anything else.”

“No promises. I like swinging my sledgehammer.” He glances around the table. “If you know what I mean.”

“No sex talk at the dinner table, dear,” Mom tells him primly, as if he doesn’t make innuendos on a regular basis. My brother cannot contain himself; he’s that immature.

I choke down some pasta so no one suspects that it’s making me want to throw up. I’m not ready to say anything to anyone, least of all at a casual, midweek dinner. No, when I spill the beans, I plan to do it the right way. My parents first, then Buzz, then…

No. Buzz first, then my parents.

Wait.

First Mateo, then Buzz, then…

I set my fork down, appetite gone, the daunting announcement in front of me getting me all kinds of twisted up inside.

Ugh.

“Why are you being weird?” Buzz probes, asking point-blank across the table, stabbing his noodle-filled fork in my direction.

“I’m not being weird.” I scrunch up my face to prove my un-weirdness. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Except I am kind of being weird; Chandler knows it, and Tripp knows it, and I know it. Even the dog knows it—we’ve brought Chewy along, and he’s slumbering at my feet, resting his jowls on the top of my boots, protecting his pregnant auntie.

Slobbering on my boots too, I imagine.

Buzz grunts, unconvinced. “Normally you’re giving me shit. You’re too quiet—I don’t trust you.”

That makes me laugh. “You don’t trust me because I’m not being loud? Am I that obnoxious?”

“Yes, one hundred percent.”

“You’re worse.”

“At least I can own it.” Buzz helps himself to a third serving of lasagna. I know it’s his third because I’ve been watching him; he’s shoveling the food back like he’s eating for two.

Hmm.

I cock my head at him, then study Hollis.

She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt and leggings and looks just as tired as I feel, except she’s hiding it better than I am.

“You’re the one that’s being weird,” Tripp chimes in, tearing off a piece of bread from the sourdough loaf and slathering it with butter. He’s coming to my defense to take the heat off me by starting an argument with Buzz. “What’s your deal?”

Buzz shifts in his chair.

Hollis shifts in hers.

The dog rises from my feet and goes to sit on hers, beneath the table.

Oh shit.

Ooh no.

My stomach turns, and it’s not morning sickness from the baby, although it’s from a baby alright—just not mine.

“I don’t have a deal. You do,” Buzz volleys back, ever the consummate debater but never actually having a decent comeback.

His one-liners suck.

He wouldn’t last a second in a professional debate, but the two of these morons sling mud at each other nonstop when they’re together because of the same pissing-contest, competitive bullshit they’ve had since they were spawned.

Beasts.

Our mother sets down her fork, bracing for the argument that’s brewing, glancing at our dad, who’s obliviously chewing and staring out the window, lost in space.