“What the actual fuck,” I whisper to myself, and then burst out laughing again.
“I was just going to say the same thing.”
I startle so violently that when my left arm swings to the side, I manage to launch Andrew’s mug of hot toddy out of his hand, over the side of the porch. We both track it as it arcs and lands in a snowbank; the warm liquid melts the fluffy powder in a puff of steam, causing the white unicorn mug I made him when I was fifteen—his go-to mug at the cabin—to sink out of sight. Little does he know I painted the words Mae + Andrew on the bottom of the mug in white before coating the entire bottom with a bubblegum pink.
“Wow. Okay.” He turns around, leaning back against the porch railing to look at me. “I was coming out here to ask why you were acting so weird, but I see I need to keep things present tense.”
I have so many questions about what the hell is going on that my thought stream has just turned into static white noise.
“You’re staring at me like you don’t know where you are.” Andrew takes a step forward. “I was going to give you some shit, but I’m genuinely worried that you’re suffering some sort of head injury and not telling us.”
“I’m just a little foggy today.”
He grins, and his matching set of dimples make a delightful entrance. Pressing his steepled fingers to his chest, he says, “I’m Andrew Polley Hollis, which was the worst combination of middle and last names for a seventh grader. You call me ‘Mandrew.’ I fiddle with sound equipment at Red Rocks for a living. My little brother is kind of an asshole. I am the one man alive who likes neither scotch nor beer. You and I used to play vampires when we were kids and didn’t realize the marks we were leaving on each other’s necks were hickeys.” He gestures to his body. “Six two. About one eighty. Aries. This”—he points to his head of curls—“is natural, and a constant mess.”
“The hair has a mind of its own?” I grin. Are we flirting? This feels like flirting.
Shut up, brain.
“Inside you’ll find your father, Daniel Jones, obstetrician, owner of a newly broken tooth. He is notoriously uptight about his hands, and tells a lot of very disturbing stories about childbirth. Your mother, the one who keeps feeling your forehead, is Elise—you look a lot like her, I might add. She is a worrier, but actually pretty funny, and someday her paintings are going to sell for more than this place is worth, mark my words.”
I nod, impressed alongside him that Mom’s career is flourishing. He waits for me to say something, but I gesture for him to continue because Andrew’s voice is hypnotic. It has a honeyed depth with just the barest scratch around the edges. Honestly, I’d gladly listen to him read me the dictionary.
“My parents, Ricky and Lisa, are also inside.” He grins wolfishly at me. “Dad is the guy taking your father to the dentist. The most important thing to remember is that none of us should eat anything Mom bakes. My mom, Scandinavian in heritage and temperament, is a brilliant writer. But unlike Elise, who is a cooking goddess, Lisa is not, as we say, skilled in the kitchen.”
I grin. “Or with a camera.”
Andrew laughs at this. “Kyle and Aaron Amir-Liang are the two perfectly groomed gentlemen with the genius five-year-olds. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening with Aaron’s hair this year—it seems to have disappeared and been replaced by a permanent black space above his head.” He pauses, lowering his voice. “And was he wearing leggings?”
A bursting laugh escapes me. “I think he was. I guess we can be glad he’s moved out of the designer sweatpants phase? That was . . . a lot of information about Uncle Aaron that teenage Mae did not need.”
Andrew snaps. “It’s a good sign you remember that, though. Now, I don’t need to tell you that Kyle is an award-winning Broadway performer and used to be a backup dancer for Janet Jackson, because he’ll undoubtedly mention it himself sometime tonight.”
I laugh again, biting my lip. I’m sure I’m exhibiting the wild-eyed bliss of a contestant on a game show who’s just won a million dollars. My memory never gets Andrew right. My brain doesn’t know how to make that green of his eyes, doesn’t believe cheekbones can be so sculpted, dimples so deep and playful. Andrew, in the flesh, is always such a shock to the system.
“Last year Zachary learned about death when his goldfish kicked the bucket. He walked around like a tiny grim reaper telling us we’re all going to die someday. Kennedy knows the capital of every state or country in the world,” he says confidentially. “She says some of the smartest things to ever come out of this group, and we don’t let anyone give that little girl any crap. She’s going to be the first president on the spectrum, mark my words. But hopefully not the first woman.”