Uhm, wow. That was loud, judging by the looks of the folks around the baggage area. I forgot just how bold and brash and unfiltered my extended family can be. My blush answers everything for them, and Estella laughs.

“Just messing with you, girl. Last time I saw you, you were looking a bit twiggy. Good to see that those puberty glow-ups really do happen to us mere mortals because you look great! It really is good to see you! I’ve been stuck indoors too much between studying, practicing, and performing. In fact, what is that burning ball of fire in the sky, anyway?” Marissa holds her hands in front of her face, cringing away from the sunlight coming in the airport windows.

“Whatever,” Estella teases. “You’ve just been spending too much time with Mark Brierson on top of you to see the sun.” Vanessa holds up a fist which Estella bumps back. They even do the finger-waggle explosion thing, and I suddenly feel ridiculously old.

“Green with envy is not your color, Sis,” Marissa taunts back, and all three of them devolve into silly giggles.

We get their bags loaded, and they pile in. Driving back to Nana and Papa’s, they fill me in on college life and trying to get noticed for their singing, but it’s hard to keep all the details in place.

I mean, they are triplets, and while not identical, they’re close enough that I have a hard time telling them apart after ten years of not hanging out together. It’s especially hard because they tend to talk over each other constantly and finish each other’s sentences.

“So, tell us about your man,” Vanessa says. “Do you love him?”

“Is he hot?”

“Is he loaded?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” I answer easily, laughing.

“Whoo-hoo!” Estella cheers, almost punching the roof of my car in her excitement. “Girl, we are so happy for you! We were all getting nervous that you were never going to get married, or if you did, it wouldn’t be in time.” Her eyes widen, “I mean, shit . . . sorry. It’s just . . . you know how old school the family is, and you’ve always been the closest to Papa, his favorite. I’m glad he’s going to walk you down the aisle.”

“It’s a dream come true,” I agree, but I feel like shit saying it. Tack three more onto the list of people Ross and I are lying to. It’s enough to make me certain that Lucifer’s warming up my own little corner of hell.

We reach Nana’s house, and as soon as I pull up, the door opens with Nana and Sofia and Papa all coming out to hug the girls, making a huge fuss. “Oh, babies, you’ve gotten so grown, so beautiful!” Papa says, smiling hugely. “A vision for this old man.”

“Sing for us!” Aunt Sofia demands as if they’re performing bears for her entertainment, but her smile softens the order. “I’ve been hearing so much about your talent, but I can’t use the damn YouTube properly!”

The triplets smile, obviously basking in the praise, though Vanessa blushes as she answers. “Uhm, most of our songs are . . . you know, sort of mature?”

“And what am I, the Mickey Mouse Club?” Sofia asks, grinning. “What, you think your generation’s the first to discover songs about your hoo-hah? Child, I know a few Italian songs that would make that Cardi B blush!”

The triplets laugh, knowing they’re not going to get out of doing a little bit. “Okay,” Estella finally says, looking at her sisters. “This is one of our standards. It’s a little old and clean because I do not want to think of your old lady hoo-ha, Aunt Sofia, but maybe you know it.”

The girls start humming, and I’m shocked at how much they’ve improved. Maybe it’s reaching maturity, maybe it’s just that they understand the emotions behind the lyrics, but as Estella sings a contralto lead at first before Vanessa and Marissa join in with alto and soprano for a new spin on Fly Me To The Moon, I’d say Frank Sinatra would be proud.

“Whoo, you girls had better save that for the wedding!” Nana says. “You girls do that, Violet here’s going to have a bun in her oven by Sunday night!” She sways her hips so far left and right, I’m surprised she doesn’t pop one out of socket, but Papa doesn’t seem to mind because he’s watching transfixed. I can’t decide if that’s gross or sweet.

Wait, what? Singing at the wedding. “Nana—”

“We’d love to! It’ll be our gift to you and Ross!” Vanessa exclaims, grinning. “Oh, Vi, thank you!”

I know what I should do. I should just say no. I should say we’ve hired someone. I should say that Morgan Andrews goes into violent flashbacks if he hears anything but acoustic smooth jazz, PTSD from a torrid youth spent in the seventies.

Instead, I clear my throat. “Maybe a song or two?” It’s the only way to corral this and not look like a bitch.

Please say you can’t, please say you can’t, please—

“We’ll give you a list of choices that’d be perfect, and you can pick, and then just point us in the direction of the mics,” Marissa says with a laugh.

Shit.

Guess I’ll add that to my to-do list . . . telling Ross and the wedding planner and then picking a song. Or two?

“Hey, Nana,” I say, changing the subject before the triplets start auditioning songs right here and now. “Ross’s mom extended an invitation for a charity gala at their estate tomorrow night. I sent Mom a text about it, but it’s for us all.”