"Armpit," he says, raising up his right arm to display a hole at the seam of his shirtsleeve. "And, yeah, one of the buttons fell off too."
"How do you tear your clothes up so badly?" Rachel asks, staring up at Hank.
"He undresses like the damn Tasmanian devil," I say as he takes his button-up shirt off over his head. He yanks down his undershirt and, once his head is free, shakes out his shaggy hair, purely for Rachel's benefit. "Seriously, Hank. We've been over this. Unbutton your shirt before taking it off and definitely before throwing it in the washer."
"It takes too much time."
"And having to drive across town to have your sister sew it back together doesn't?" I take his shirt over to my sewing machine and find a matching color thread. I already have a bobbin with the color. As I load the sewing machine, I stare up at him. "Or, do you have other reasons to come over here so often?"
"You two are ridiculous," Rachel says from the couch as she notices Hank's frown deepen. "Like, the sibling fights make me glad I'm an only child, but it's also kind of sweet too."
"I am the sweet one," Hank says but can barely be heard over the whir of my sewing machine. He takes my vacated seat on the couch and talks to Rachel as I sew, knowing full well that I won't be able to as easily interject if I can't hear anything over the sound of sewing.
It's not that I'm trying to prevent my brother from being happy. He's had a crush on Rachel since the first day he met her, and it's only gotten worse with time. He knows that she's with Carter, and that she loves Carter. He has been nothing but a gentleman toward Rachel, mostly because he knows that I will kick his ass if he hits on my best friend, especially my engaged best friend, but I'm his twin sister. I know him. And I know that if he continues to pine over Rachel, he's going to get his stupid heart broken. That's why I tease him. I'm trying to cushion the blow because one day, Rachel and Carter will get married. And there will be my brother, sad and alone, and I don't know if I can bear to see him like that.
"So, what did you end up doing last night after your glamorous exit from dinner?" Rachel asks me as I dig through a tin of buttons trying to find the best match for Hank's shirt.
"You know, little of this, little of that," I say, not entirely lying. Once I got back to my house, I did do a little cleaning and a little tweaking to my online shop.
"So you slept with Grant again?"
"Ack!" Hank says, sticking his fingers in his ears. "Warn a guy before you talk about his baby sister's sexual exploits."
"I'm two minutes younger," I say, my teeth gritted, more at Rachel's disgusted tone than at my brother's immaturity level. I squeeze between them on the couch and begin to sew the button back on to Hank's shirt. "And it's not like you're an angel, Hank."
"Yeah, but that's different. We don't discuss my sexual exploits," he says.
"About that," I say, causing a look of pure terror to cross his face. "This is your date shirt, isn't it? Where are you going?"
"You have a date shirt?" Rachel asks Hank with a laugh. "That's cute."
"It'd be a lot cuter if he didn't rip it off his body like it was covered in bedbugs every time he changed," I mumble. "Seriously. Who is she?"
"It's just some girl I met online. We're meeting for coffee," Hank says, and I look up at him to see that he's staring at Rachel, waiting for her reaction. She says nothing, but Hank doesn't look as rejected as usual.
"Good for you. Also, your shirt's done." I shove the shirt back in his hand. "I'm sending you off with some nail polish."
"I know you wanted a sister, Evie, but … "
"It's for your shirt. Even though that button should stay on, I want you to dab some clear nail polish on the button threads of all your shirts. It'll keep them attached a little bit longer."
"Does that really work?" Rachel asks as I disappear into my bedroom to retrieve the polish. I stick my head out from my bedroom and stare her down. "Right. Don't question your sewing knowledge if I want you to shorten any of my pants for free. Got it."
I find a bottle of clear nail polish and hand it over to Hank, who is carefully putting on his shirt, paying painstaking attention to each button purely for my benefit. I know he will tear it off later.
"Good luck on your date, bro," I say with a smile.
"I should probably get going too," Rachel says, standing up only to slip on some beads and fall back onto the couch.
"Here," Hank offers his hand to Rachel and helps her out of her seat.
"Where are you going? Over to Carter's?"
"No. Carter and I are … we're … " She looks up at Hank, who takes the hint faster than I could ever thought possible.
"That's my cue. See you guys later. Thanks for the shirt, sis," Hank says, tiptoeing around beads to get to the door. A quick wave to us and he's gone.
"What's going on with you and Carter? You seemed so happy at dinner last night until Adam and I-"
"Ruined our double date?"
"It was never a double date," I spit out. "Definitely never that."
She waves a hand, dismissing my comment. "After you two left, we started talking about the wedding and our relationship and I don't know that we ever reached a consensus."
"A consensus? A consensus on what?" I realize that my voice is becoming high-pitched and kind of squeaky but I can't help it.
Rachel shakes her head and lets out a small laugh, but I can tell that it's not genuine. "I don't know. It's nothing. I'm going to go down to the Square to get some coffee and work on some freelance stuff. Want me to bring you back anything?"
"No, thanks. I need to focus on this dress," I say, even though my mind is miles away from the gown in my lap.
Chapter Five
How can I be expected to take beads and sequins off a wedding gown after my best friend tells me that her own wedding is … what is going on with Rachel and Carter?
After she left, I couldn't focus on anything in my apartment. Hank would say that I'm too involved in Rachel and Carter's relationship, but he doesn't realize the toll that relationship takes on me. Those two need to stay happy for my own sanity. They're the only normal people I know still in love, and I need that kind of reassurance. And I know them both; they would be lost without the other.
Since I couldn't settle down and focus on the dress, I have found myself at one of the 24-hour grocery stores in town with a basket looped over my arm studying the ingredients on a frozen dinner meal for one to make sure it doesn't contain any form of meat.
The illustrious life of Evie Duvall, ladies and gentlemen.
"Evie?" a voice behind me asks, causing me to jump. I turn around to see Adam Iberico staring at me, his glasses fogging over from the open freezer door.
"Adam, hi," I say, letting the freezer door close. It snaps shut behind me, catching my skirt in the process.
"Do you ever wear jeans?" he asks, opening the freezer door to free my skirt.
"I have on fleece-lined leggings now. It's January in Kentucky. I can't go completely bare-legged; I'd freeze." I rarely wear pants, it's true. Dresses and skirts are just more fun and freeing. Plus, when I'm wearing a dress, people think that I look fancy and put a lot of time into my appearance. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's just one piece of clothing, and it's like wearing pajamas out in public, except no one gives me weird looks.
I shift my grocery basket to my other arm in hopes of shielding my sad purchases of single meal frozen dinners, a bottle of discounted moscato, and clearance Christmas candy. I peek at Adam's cart and am disgusted with him and myself. It's teeming with vegetables and fruit and … is that almond milk? That pretentious bastard.
I mean, I drink almond milk too but that's because I'm trying to reduce the amount of animal byproducts I consume. He probably drinks it just to be a hipster.
I shake my head. Now is not the time to criticize. In fact, it's the perfect opportunity to apologize.
"Before we start biting each other's heads off, I want to say sorry about dinner last night. I was kind of a dick," I say quickly, but sincerely.
"I'm sorry too," he replies just as fast.
Well, we got that out of the way.
"Um," I say, trying to fill the silence as we walk down the freezer aisle, "Rachel said your bakery won a Best of Bowling Green award. Congratulations."
"Thanks," he says, genuine surprise in his voice that I'm complimenting him rather than condemning him. "Have you been in the shop?"
This is not the time to mention that I would sooner offer ice skating lessons in Hell than set foot into Adam's bakery. Not that it's his bakery. He just seems to manage it, from what I've gathered.
"I haven't had the chance," I say. "I'll have to pop in sometime."
"You should. I've been testing this banana pecan cayenne doughnut." He laughs at the face I pull. "It tastes better than it sounds, I promise."