Page 16 of More For Me

My little sister gives an exaggerated shudder. “Or make up after the fight.”

I stay at my parent’s place for a few hours, catching up with everyone. Vega’s shortbread is delicious, if a little out there, and she tells me all about her latest videos—even though I watch all of them faithfully. Then Presley and Santana come home and the four of us hang out in the living room, chatting while I braid Vega’s hair and Santana paints my toenails.

“This is a nice scene to walk into,” Mom says, grinning at us from the doorway. “All my girls in one place.”

Santana holds up the bottle of polish. “You want me to do you next?”

“Duh.” Mom comes in and nudges Presley out of the way so she can sit between us. “You barely said hello to me, Lele.”

“That’s because you and Dad were busy mauling each other.”

“Oh God, gross,” Santana cries dramatically. “I don’t need that image in my head.”

“So how’s it going?” she asks, peering at me with the appraising blue eyes that always seem to see so far beyond the surface. “You haven’t been home in a while.”

“I literally talk to you every day on the phone,” I remind her. I gesture at my sisters. “We have Brennen Girls FaceTime every Tuesday and Friday.”

Because there are so many Ransome cousins with the same last name, the kids will often refer to the different family groups by their mom’s maiden names. We do it to keep things from getting confusing, but I secretly love being called a Brennen. Being a Ransome is great, don’t get me wrong, but my mom is basically my favorite person on the planet, and I like having that connection to her.

“FaceTime and phone calls aren’t the same.” She kisses the top of my head. “We all miss you when you aren’t here.”

I slap a hand over my heart. “Ouch, Mom. I expected the guilt trip from Dad but not you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you think saying I miss you is a guilt trip I’ve definitely been spoiling you.”

I lean my head on her shoulder, closing my eyes briefly as I take in her familiar scent. She’s been wearing the same French perfume since I was a kid—Dad bought it for her on their first trip to Paris. It’s the smell I associate with home. That and Vega’s baking. And, let’s be honest, the chemical scent of nail polish remover. With five girls, there’s pretty much always someone painting their nails.

“I missed you too,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m glad.” She lifts her feet and waggles her toes. “What color should I go with? Your dad thinks red is sexy but I think I want to get a little crazy.”

“I so don’t need to know what Dad thinks is sexy, Mom,” Santana groans, rifling through her bin of endless nail colors.

Mom’s eyes flash with mischief. “Lots of men find a woman’s feet attractive, Sanny. You should see the look on his face when I come home with a pedicure. He always—”

“Oh my God,” Vega yells dramatically, covering her ears. “I’m going to need so much therapy.”

I laugh. I love my family. I really do. I need to make more of an effort to get here every week.

I know that would probably be overkill for a lot of people my age, but I don’t care if it makes me weird. My mom kicks ass, my sisters are so funny, and no one in the world makes me feel as secure and cared for than my father.

Well, almost no one. I can’t help but think about the moment at the wedding when Bodhi handed me that Cosmo. I’ve been thinking about that a lot in the last few days, actually. In the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. But it feltbig, somehow, and I’m still not sure why.

“Uh oh,” Presley says, pointing at me. “You’ve got your thinking face on. Nothing good ever comes from that.”

“I don’t have a thinking face.” I pat my cheeks. “Do I?”

“You have a very nice face,” Mom assures me. “But you do seem like something might be on your mind.”

“Oooh, bet it’s boy trouble,” Vega says. “Things not going well with Mr. Potato Head?”

I blink at her, having no idea what she’s talking about. Her grin becomes mischievous. “That’s what River called Trey at the wedding. Said his head looked like a baked potato.”

“Vega, we don’t make fun of people’s appearances,” Mom says, but the way her lips are twitching is a dead giveaway that she wants to laugh.

“Can I make fun of the fact that he was hideously lame?”

“Vega,” I snap, and she throws up her hands, jolting enough that I lose my grip on her braid.