I stared. “If you’re trying to body-shame me, it won’t work. I was too thin before. Know what happens if you’re too thin? You get osteoporosis like Mom.”
“You do not.”
“You might. Thinness is one of the indicators. I know this, Liam. My doctor was after me for years to gain weight.”
He drew in his chin and gave a huff. “You’re in a snit.”
I was. All I wanted was my own quiet little house back. No. That wasn’t all I wanted. I wanted my nice quiet little life back.
Frustrated, I said, “I really want those crackers.”
He went back to stirring whatever ground meat was frying in my pan. “I ate them after you went to bed last night—ate them right there on the sofa”—he indicated the place with his eyes—“but not to worry, I dust-busted this morning.”
“You ate all of them?”
“There were only two packs, and I was hungry,” he stated. “I can’t eat when I’m serving other people, and in case you didn’t notice, I served half your town last night.”
No apology? The best defense is a good offense. My brother had learned that lesson well.
But I really, really wanted peanut butter crackers. Only two packs left, and I hadn’t restocked? Didn’t that say something about the distraction the last two weeks had been?
Settling for second best, I grabbed a box of graham crackers.
“Uh, Maggie, about dinner—”
“What is that?” I asked with a glare at the pan, disgruntled enough to suggest that it looked vile.
My brother was oblivious. His own agenda carried him blithely along. With a flourish, he said, “Navarin Printanier.”
“Liam.”
“Lamb stew with spring veggies, made with ground lamb instead of roasted because I couldn’t find whole lamb at the last minute, but the turnips look great. I’ll leave a little for you, but most of it is coming with me.”
“Where to?”
“Erica Kahn’s,” he offered and waited, expectant, even anxious.
“Perfect,” I said and headed for the stairs. My brother could have made Navarin Printanier for the devil, and that would have been fine. The idea of having the house to myself for even a few hours was heaven.
* * *
After closing the door to my room loudly enough to make a statement, I pulled up Spotify, set my phone in the dock, and climbed into bed fully clothed. Sitting against the headboard with the covers bunched under my breasts, I opened the box of graham crackers, removed a sheet and broke it in half. I munched happily, eager to redeem my personal space and relax.
But the first song was Adele’s “All I Ask,” whose lyrics made me lonely. I found Rihanna’s “Stay” depressing, and Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” made me want to cry.
I identified with these songs, and wasn’t that pathetic? My life was a playlist—sad, haunted, and filled with regret.
So music wouldn’t help. Grabbing the phone from its dock, I was about to check Facebook to see what Mom’s special had been, or Twitter to catch up on news beyond Devon. But the screen lit up with unread texts, and, even as I held the phone, another arrived.
I turned the thing off and tossed it aside.
Snapping another cracker in two, I listened to my woods, but the outdoor sounds were so low with the windows closed that I had to stop eating to hear. There wasn’t much anyway; March was perennially stingy. I heard the coo of a mourning dove, or maybe an owl, hard to tell which. I heard the rattle of branches blown by the wind, softened only by the susurrus of pines and firs. I might have enjoyed the purr of the cats, but they were downstairs with Liam, whose cooking sounds had to be as deliberate as my door closing—the slam of a cabinet, the rap of a wooden spoon against my iron pan, the rush of water through the pipes as the sink faucet went on and off.
Call us both childish. But there was satisfaction in making noise when one was PO’d.
IMHO, I had more of a right to it than Liam did. The fact of his commandeering my kitchen for his personal cause only added to the anger of a day in which reality had seriously upset the basket of my life. The home-and-hearth smells that rose from the stove were little solace.
I waited, listened.
“Maggie?” Liam finally called.
I didn’t answer.
“I’m leaving,” he called.
Either he sensed my anger and didn’t want a confrontation, or he was that eager to be at Erica Kahn’s. He