I’m done getting dressed and I hear Celine’s voice in the living room.

“You’re here,” she says, sounding so happy it almost makes me happy. “What a surprise!”

“The Delphy twins back together again,” he jokes and lifts her up just as I walk into the room.

Celine laughs and when she sees me, she comes over.

“Ethan, this is Maya,” she says.

“We’ve met,” we both say. He’s smiling while he says it; I look away.

“That was fast,” she says, chuckling. “Great. How tired are you? Wine and Karina’s famous pretzels?”

“You have them? For sure. And wine sounds good too,” he says.

“Red?” she asks, looking at us both.

“I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll let you chat and go get some sleep.”

I want to remove myself, go to my room, and basically never come out. Ever.

“No way! Come on, Ethan just got here. Let’s all go on the terrace and pop open the bottle,” she says, looking at me.

He opens his suitcase and takes out a black T-shirt. “Do I have ten minutes?” he asks Celine. “I want to take a shower and change out of these gross clothes.”

“Sure,” she says. “Go to Mom and Dad’s bathroom, though. We took over your room.”

He smiles. “That’s fine.”

Thirty-Eight

Alone with Celine, I’m still reeling from my first failed meeting, or meetings, with Ethan.

“Did I take Ethan’s room?” I ask, wondering when the embarrassments will stop tonight.

“Yes, but he’s fine.”

“You don’t think we should switch? I can take the other one.”

“Neh. Our parents’ bedroom has a bigger bed. He’ll like it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you tell me he lives here too?”

“Sorry. I thought you knew,” she says. “No worries. He’ll be back on the road soon.”

I want to remind her I won’t be here long either, but I don’t.

We take the food and wine outside. Ethan joins us and pours wine into three glasses.

“Here’s to us. All of us,” says Celine.

We all take a sip and then quietly nibble at pretzels for a while. They are good!

It’s awkward, and I feel like the third wheel; besides, I’m having a hard time looking at him without imagining what’s going through his mind. He, on the other hand, seems relaxed.

“How’s the new book coming?” asks Celine.

“It’s coming. I’m done with the first draft, going into revisions,” he says.

“Are you happy with it?”

“Am I ever?” he asks and laughs. “First drafts are not meant to make you happy.”

She turns to me. “My brother, the perfectionist. You know, Maya is also a writer.”

“You are?” he asks.

I gulp. “Journalist. It’s easier to commit to two thousand words than ninety thousand.”

“I always found short fiction much harder to write,” he says, and although what he says seems nice, it doesn’t come off that way. It comes off as patronizing.