Weekend Friend

12.

THE WHITE CLEMATIS vines have grown significantly since I'd last been home in the spring, snaking their way up the antique wooden trellis that Mom keeps manicured year round. Their vanilla aroma tangles with the subtle tanginess of the ocean breeze, forming the scent that I wish I could turn into a candle and call home.

Stepping beneath the trellis, I set the glass bowl of pasta salad in the centre of the wrought iron table and frown at the sight of only three place settings. "I wish Dad could be here," I lament as I take the chair facing the ocean, hoping I can soak in some vitamin sea just by looking at it.

"You can't just cancel on the Kennedy School, Jenny," Logan says, flicking his words at me with a kind of lazy ease as he passes through the French doors.

I haven't seen him in a few months, except for the occasional family FaceTime call, but I can tell he just got a haircut. It's short enough that only a few brown curls peek out from beneath the brim of his Cal baseball cap, casting a shadow that hides the dusting of freckles across the tops of his cheeks. He has more than I do since he stayed in sunny California while I opted for rainy Washington.

I glower up at Logan. "Did I say I wanted him to cancel on the Kennedy School?"

Logan sits down and leans back in his chair as he gives me a disapproving look that says, I could make a comeback but I'll take the high road.

"He came pretty close to it," Mom chimes in, carrying a charcuterie board and placing it beside the pasta salad. "It's a rare thing to have both of our babies under the same roof." Her face softens as she looks between us, and I panic as her eyes shine at the sight of her twenty-year-old babies.

"Please don't make that face," I request. "When you look like you're about to cry, I actually cry."

Mom sits down, her brow creasing. "What face?"

"It's your Sad Mom face," Logan says pointedly as he drapes a napkin across his lap with unnecessary flourish. "It's the one you make whenever we drop Jenny off at the airport or leave the Container Store."

"Or when we sold the flip house on Sunridge Road," I add.

Logan nods. "Because she loved the master bath. Remember the heated floors?"

"Obviously."

"I'm glad you two can come together over making fun of your mother." Mom clears her throat and gestures to the display of food. "And now that you've gotten your bickering out of the way, dinner is served."

Logan and I meet each other's gaze, silently agreeing to our mother's request for a truce. But I don't need twin telepathy to know it won't last the night.

✾ ✾ ✾

The private beach walkover that leads from our house to the dunes twinkles with white string lights. As kids, these lights made it easy for Logan and I to find our way back home after galavanting around on the beach at night, and it still does, especially after we've had a few glasses of wine at dinner.

I trace the jagged outlines of the cliffs with my eyes as we walk barefoot along the waves. The water is an inky blue now that the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, and a shiver shoots up my spine as it laps up against my ankles.

I probably still could've counted the number of footsteps behind us when Logan dives into one of his favourite pastimes—talking about his future career path.

"I don't think I'd want to actually practise law," Logan says. "But I feel like I need a law degree if I want to accomplish anything meaningful. Even all of the obnoxious politicians have one."