You take your snippet of pleasure and you move on. That’s all you get.

Angel: Did you know the last four letters in queue aren’t silent?

I wait, and I wait, and three minutes later, his name appears.

Duke: I bet they’re just waiting their turn.

Now it’s my turn to move on.

14

Flynn

“In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have sent that apostrophe email.”

I wait for a response from my audience. She gives me none. I pace across the living room, checking out the view of Gramercy Park. “But in my defense, it was a good joke.”

Still no answer.

“She liked it. I swear, she liked it,” I insist.

Silence.

“Look, you’d have done the same, Zoe.”

A delicious smile is my reward. My niece coos at me.

This kid. This sweet little baby. She melts me. “See? I knew you would laugh! You love my jokes. You cracked up when I told you the broccoli joke the first time I met you in the hospital room.”

She smiles again, like the Mona Lisa, and I’m ready to give this little blonde baby anything in the cosmos she wants. I bounce my niece higher in my arms then drop a kiss to her soft forehead, taking a moment to inhale her baby scent as I pace around my sister’s place, waiting for her to return from her morning workout.

“Knock, knock,” I say, then answer for Zoe. “Who’s there? Broccoli. Broccoli who? Broccoli doesn’t have a last name, silly.”

She emits a gurgling sound that makes it clear she remains my number-one fan, enjoying the joke as much as she did on her Birth day.

A lock clicks and the door to my sister’s home opens. Olivia returns, her face flushed, her hair a little damp from sweating. “Who is my favorite brother in the entire universe?” She points both hands at me as Zoe squirms at the sound of her mom’s voice. “I knew you’d win the Best of the Twin Brothers Olympics today.”

I wipe my free hand over my forehead dramatically. “All I’ve ever wanted is to win the gold over Dylan.”

She strides across the living room, reaching for her little girl, who squeals when she sees her mom. “Hello, my little love bug,” Olivia says to the baby, then to me, she says, “If you keep babysitting in the wee hours of the morning when my husband has to spay a dozen Chihuahuas, you could pull far ahead in the brother race.”

“A dozen?”

“Crazy, right? They were rescued from a puppy mill. Herb spayed them all, and now they’re going to Little Friends to find homes,” she says, naming one of the dog rescue shelters in the city.

“That’s fantastic. Now, can you two stop being such do-gooders? You make the rest of us look bad.”

She nudges me. “Speaking of doing good, how did your face-lift go the other night? I’m waiting for all the details.”

I groan and drag a hand through my hair. “Too well.”