Family ties and tension

The brunch spot was too sunny, too cheery for what I knew was coming. Vince’s sister, Jordan, was ten minutes late, which was somehow both predictable and strategic. When she finally arrived, she swept into the café like she owned the damn place, her eyes locking on me like I’d spilled red wine on her white carpet.

“Vince,” she greeted him barely looking at me. “Deppgrl.”

“Jordan," I said with a saccharine smile. "Nice of you to join us. I thought maybe you were avoiding brunch like you avoid your remaining brother any time he and I are together!"

Her mouth twitched, but she ignored the jab and sat. “So this is… back on again?”

I opened my mouth, but Vince beat me to it. “We’re not doing this.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Doing what? I’m just asking. With her track record—”

“Don’t act like you’re concerned,” I snapped. “You stopped talking to Vince because I was in his life. That’s not protecting him. That’s running.”

“Excuse me?” she said, voice rising.

“You heard me. You’ve been MIA on and off for years. Now you show up just to take digs?”

Jordan looked at Vince for support, but he didn’t flinch. “She’s right.”

“Vince—”

“No,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You want to come at her, but let’s talk about why you’re really pissed. Your husband left you for one of his students a few years after she graduated, and it reminded you too much of what you think this is. But it’s not. You projected all your hurt and your bitterness on her—and me. That’s not fair.”

Jordan’s face flushed, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. “That’s not what happened.”

“Yes, it is,” Vince said. “You think I don’t remember how you cut and ran every time things got hard? You ran from your husband when he fucked up. You ran from me when I didn’t make the choices you wanted. You ran from your own life. Don’t try and blame Deppgrl for that.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

I leaned back in my chair, sipping my coffee. “You know, for someone who claims to care so much about her brother, you sure stayed away a long time. Must’ve been exhausting carrying around that much judgment. Maybe you should try therapy?”

Jordan stood up quickly, her chair scraping against the tile. “Text me some time,” she muttered.

Vince didn’t say a word until she was out of sight.

He sighed and looked at me. “She’s… still my sister.”

I nodded slowly. “She is. But I’m not accepting your apology on her behalf. The only person who should be apologizing is her—and we both know that’s never going to happen.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” he asked, voice low.

I smiled faintly. “Actually… yeah. I want a sequel. To the signed first edition you got me. Doesn’t have to be anything rare—just a far newer edition is more than fine. And no, you don’t get to try to buy your love anytime your sister pisses us off.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Later that day, before dinner, Vince took me to an antique bookstore tucked in the corner of an old block downtown. It smelled like dust, binding glue, and buried treasure. The hardwood floors creaked under every step, and the shelves leaned slightly from the weight of forgotten classics. Vince found the third edition of the sequel—worn but well cared for, a small tear in the dust jacket, but still beautiful. He handed it to me like it was precious.

“It’s not signed,” he said, “but it still tells the story.”

I kissed him in the aisle, holding the book between us. “Better than good,” I whispered. “It’s ours.”

That evening, he took me to our favorite Peruvian diner—a cozy little spot with warm yellow lighting, rustic wooden tables, and colorful woven tapestries adorning the walls. The scent of garlic, cumin, and lime hit us the moment we stepped inside. The hostess gave Vince a once-over and a smile that lingered a second too long, but he only had eyes for me. Our server, a charming man with a dimple and a little too much enthusiasm, seemed amused by our energy—his subtle flirtation aimed in my direction—but I barely registered it. I was too focused on Vince.

We ordered lomo saltado—tender strips of beef, onions, tomatoes, and peppers stir-fried to perfection and served over crispy fries with white rice. The aji verde sauce had just the right amount of kick, and the passionfruit juice we shared was ice cold and tangy. For dessert, arroz con leche: creamy, sweet, sprinkled with cinnamon, and a drizzle of caramel that made Vince nearly moan softly after each bite.

After dinner, we walked off the meal, fingers laced, before heading back to his place. We curled up on his couch with an old black-and-white film flickering in the background. I laid my head in his lap, warm and safe, my body soft with wine and food and comfort.

He thought I was asleep when I heard him whisper it.

“I love you.”

I didn’t open my eyes. I just smiled.