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The Truth

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But I did. For my brother, because

I’m the best sister evah, and I’ll be
expecting my crown, sash, and
bouquet as soon as possible.
Okay, that’s not true. I’m not
expecting prizes. This dinner with
Ace and Harper is enough of a
reward.
Especially considering just how
delicious the roasted eggplant
moussaka that Harper made is. I
swipe up the last bite as Harper gets
up to take the dishes to the kitchen.
I try to help, but she waves me off.
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“I’ve got it. I’m sure you two have

sibling stuff to talk about,” she says
with a kind smile. “Besides, I’m
particular on how I scrub my new
casserole dish.”
“New casserole dish?” I ask. “I don’t
think I own a casserole dish, period,
much less have a new one as
compared to an old one.”
Harper looks to Ace with doe eyes.
“Ace bought it for me. It’s turquoise
with sweet little yellow flowers. You
can borrow it if you’d like.”
That’s Harper. She’s picky about
caring for her things, but if you need
it, she’ll readily hand it over.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I
wouldn’t want to burn anything in it
or wash it wrong. And I don’t have
any urgent casserole recipes right
now.”
She laughs like that was a joke as
she walks toward the kitchen, and
I’d bet that she has a whole Pinterest
board of casserole recipes, especially
now that she has a new and pretty
dish.
Ace’s gaze follows Harper, a wide
smile on his lips as he watches her
carefully clean up. He’s not merely
smitten, he’s full-blown addicted to
Harper and treats her like a queen.
Which is good. She deserves it,
especially as she treats him like a
king as well.
Seeing them both distracted, I take
the opportunity to slip a small crust
of bread to Kevin, Ace’s dog, who’s
been hiding under the table in hopes
of snatching any dropped crumbs.
With his long ears that drag the
floor, droopy face, and overbite,
Kevin is the ugliest dog I’ve ever
seen. He perpetually looks like
someone stole his favorite squeaky
toy and he’s on the verge of
dissolving into tears, so we’ve taken
to affectionately and accurately
calling him a goblin.
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From the first moment he came to

Ace’s doorstep, the abandoned runt
of a litter, he’s been Ace’s baby boy.
The only area where Ace is able to
resist spoiling the dog is in table
scraps. But that seems to be my job
as his kind-hearted aunt and sucker
du jour, because he knows exactly
how to wheedle me for snacks. Like
now, when he whines for another
piece of bread, effectively tattling on
me.
Ace gives me a look. “I should make
you take him out for his next walk if
you’re going to do that. Do you know
what olive oil does to him?”
“Make his coat shiny and
handsome?” I quip, and Ace rolls his
eyes. “What? It’s true.”
“And give him the squats,” Ace adds.
“Besides, we don’t feed him from the
table in general. It’s bad manners.”
“Bad manners?” I ask, laughing and
then holding my hands up, palms
toward Ace. “Whoa, look out, we got
ourselves a badass over here, folks!”
“Tiffany.”
I giggle. He’s just so indignant. “Ace,
have you met yourself? You literally
farted on my couch so many times,
and with the vilest Taco Bell fumes,
that I had to burn it. The resulting
mushroom cloud of noxiousness
made the local news channel think
we were under attack. They almost
called in the National Guard.”
Ace growls. “You did not burn the
damn couch. The fucking thing’s
right there.”
He gestures toward the couch in
question with a glare, both at the
reminder of his dark days and
probably at the I’m-not-exaggerating
ghosts of Taco Bell. Proof? Simple.
He didn’t argue about the fumes,
only the burning.
“That was you before, babe!” Harper
calls from the kitchen. “It made you
the man you are today.”
I swear she would forgive a
murderer once he’d done his time,
naively trusting that they’d reformed
into a saint. Ace can still murder
more than a few tacos and burritos,
though, and I hope he’s discovered
that some Beano can work wonders
on the resulting stink.
Not wanting to put Ace through the
stench I went through, I tell myself
to ignore Kevin’s begging. “Well, I
would’ve put that old couch in the
trash if I could’ve carried it to the
curb,” I concede. “I guess if you
don’t smell it, that’s all that matters.
But can I offer a suggestion?” I
continue without pausing, assuming
he wants the wisdom my status as
an older sister provides, “Do not put
Harper ass-up and face-down on that
thing. She’d suffocate in old methane
death bombs.”
“Eloquent.”
I choose to misunderstand his
sarcastic compliment and give a bow
that’s unfortunately restricted by the
table. “Thank you. I do my best.”