“Not so fast,” I said. “If we use the extended dance mix of the song, that should kill five minutes, maybe even six. Now all we have to do is figure out how to fill the rest of the time.”

“We?” Lorna said.

The cheesy smell of seafood lasagna bubbling away greeted me when I opened the door.

My brother Johnny was slouched over the scratched pine kitchen trestle table. His hemp hat was gone, the better to show off his man bun.

“Whoa,” I said. “Did you put that casserole in the oven all by yourself?”

“Negative,” he mumbled to the table. “Prince Charming did. But I watched.”

“You can’t call him Prince Charming,” I said. “Only I can call him Prince Charming.”

Men’s voices rumbled above us like thunder. The popping sound of a nail gun broke out.

“Home sweet home,” I said. I opened the dishwasher, rooted around for clean dishes to fill for the animals.

Johnny was still staring at the table.

“So how was your day?” I said, heavy on the flippant.

“Groovy,” he said. “Nothing like a grown man getting driven to and from work in a pink ice cream truck by his daddy.”

I took a moment to enjoy the image of our father pulling into Johnny’s corporate headquarters, the ice cream truck clinking “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

My brother sighed. We might not have had much in common, but we definitely both had the martyr thing down cold.

“So do something about it,” I said. “Like maybe go pick up your freakin’ car.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that?” he said.

“Jerk,” I said. I plopped food in the dishes, piled them up in the crook my arms.

I was on my way to the cat room when I heard him mumble something to my back.

I gave Horatio his food near the threshold, put Pebbles’ dish on her bookshelf, lined up the kittens’ dishes in a row on the boot tray. They all dug in.

“Bon appetit, you guys,” I said. “I’ll be back in a flash for playtime.”

I closed the door behind me and retraced my steps to the kitchen. My brother hadn’t moved a muscle.

“What did you say?” I said.

“Poppy’s taking me to get my car,” he mumbled to the table.

“Her name is Polly,” I said.

“I call her Poppy,” he said. “She likes it.”

“She likes it,” I said.

I sat down at the kitchen table, taking my childhood seat, just like Johnny had taken his.

“So,” I said. “You’re going to show up at your house to pick up your car with a pretty, pregnant woman. How do you think that’s going to fly with Kim?”

He lifted his head off the table. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Polly opened the kitchen door, closed it behind her. She took one look at us, froze.

I pushed my chair back.