Family Ties

“You’re welcome,” she said ungraciously.

“I mean it.” I gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. “You’re my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister.”

“You’re still my favorite.”

Christy grinned at me.

“Now, do you mind if I shave my face, or would it make me look gay?”

Erin rolled her eyes.

“I think it makes you look handsome,” Christy said. “Him too.”

It was my turn to look surprised.

Erin didn’t understand the reference. “He’s your boyfriend, I guess.”

“It’s very dashing,” Christy told her.

“Are we still talking about me here?” I joked. “Or Mr. Big?”

“Oh, please!” Erin said. “Seriously? Is that what you call it?”

“I call him that,” Christy said.

The penny finally dropped for Erin. “Hold on, who do you mean by

‘him’?”

“That depends,” Christy said with a goofy, endearing grin. “The smaller him is Mr. Big. The bigger him is Paul.”

“Ha! Okay. So you have a pet name for his dick.”

“What can I say? I really like it.”

“Now that we have that settled,” I said, “we really need to get moving.

We’re gonna be late.”

The girls each went to a sink and after a minute started chatting about

skin care.

I glanced over and realized that Christy hadn’t wrapped her towel around her body. It was draped over the corner of her sink, and she didn’t seem to care.

“Zip me up,” Christy said as she turned and swept her hair out of the way.

She looked even smaller than usual in the tight black dress, although the padded shoulders were part of the reason. She picked up her purse and once again searched for the mirror. (The room didn’t have one.)

“How do I look?” she said at last.

“Beautiful. As always.”

“No, for real. Not boyfriend ‘how do I look?’ What would your mother think? What would my mother think?”

I straightened an imaginary tilt in the shoulders of her dress. Then I tucked her hair behind her ear and ran the backs of my fingers along the line of her jaw. Her earrings were gold and onyx to match the dress, and her high heels and clutch purse complemented each other with small gold buckles.

“Beautiful,” I said again, and meant it.

She tucked the purse under her arm and reached up to adjust my tie. Then she smoothed my shirt over my chest. She even checked my waistline to make sure I didn’t have any wrinkles in my shirt.

“Just like my dad taught me,” I said with a smile. “Military-style.”

Her cheeks glowed with more than pleasure. “I used to help my mom when she checked my dad’s uniform for ceremonies and stuff.”

“So… am I properly squared away?”

She grinned and set her purse on the dresser. Then she lifted my suit coat off the hanger. I started to turn, but she moved behind me instead. She slid the sleeves onto my arms with practiced ease and then moved in front of me to smooth my lapels.

“Very handsome,” she said at last.

“You know I’m just going to take it off when we get in the car?” I said with a grin.

“Hush. You’ll spoil the moment.” She reached for her purse and looked around again. “Oh, darn it! I wish we had a mirror.”

“Relax,” I said softly. “We’ll have other times when we dress up for a formal occasion. I’ll make sure we’re in a room with a mirror.”

She reached for her compact. Then she looped her arm through mine, straightened her shoulders, and held the open compact at arm’s length. The mirror was ridiculously small for what she wanted, and I did my best not to chuckle.

“Ha ha, Mr. Spoilsport. Men look good in anything. Women have a lot more riding on our looks. And we have to make sure we match our date.”

“We’re both wearing black. How can we not match? Never mind. I know how many shades of black there are.” It sounded silly to say aloud, but it was true. (The difference wasn’t really color, but texture and how the material reflected light. Black suede absorbs more light than patent leather, so it looks darker. The same happens with dull cotton versus shiny satin. But I digress.)

“Exactly,” Christy said, as if she’d read my mind. “I’m glad I don’t have to explain.”

“Hey,” I said mildly, “clothes and fashion are almost as important to me as they are to you.”

“I know. You actually know how to dress.” She gazed at our reflection in the small mirror again. She was about to say something else when someone rapped on the door.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “We’re late.”

Christy snapped her compact shut and shoved it into her purse. I opened the door and grimaced at my father’s expression.

“Sorry,” I told him. “We should’ve gotten an earlier start.”

“Nonsense,” Christy said as she stepped in front of me. “It was my fault.

My hair took forever to dry.” It hadn’t and she knew it.

“No,” I countered, “it was my fault.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

We hustled to the car, where Dad climbed into the front passenger seat next to Mom. Susan smiled at us from the driver’s seat as Christy slid to the middle of the back seat next to Erin. I followed and folded my jacket neatly on my lap as I pulled the door closed.

“Hit it,” I said.

The car’s tires actually kicked up sand when Susan did just that.