At around ten that night, after a a FaceTime lunch date with Max, which included Mom being oblivious and Dad giving me the death stare while he chewed on seasoned chicken and salad. Followed by a long work out in the gym, Milly called me.

She had to inform me that Abby was laying on her bedroom floor, eating ice cream and sobbing about a fight that she'd had with Flynn.

She said she would fill me in when I arrived. But assured me it wasn't quite as tragic as my sister was making it out to be.

Amalia still had my car, so I took Max's. Mom and Aunt Spence were mixing margaritas in the kitchen while Nathan had opted for joining Dad at the game tonight.

He was enthusiastic as fuck to be on the sidelines while Dad did his thing. Nathan was a coach himself. For the same team Dad had played for in high school. He hadn't been the coach back then though.

Dad had once offered uncle Nathan a job as assistant coach for his team. But Nathan turned it down because he didn't want to leave Archwood.

Mom explained he had an emotional attachment to the house that their parents had lived in. He would die in that house, she said. Which was fair enough. He was seventeen when his parents died and left him with nine year old Mom.

He'd done a bit of expanding and renovating on the house after Spencer moved in but he refused to sell or move and I understood that. Memories were meaningful and it was all that he had left. He deserved to hang on.

When I arrived at Milly's, I knocked on the front door. It didn't have a handle. Just a pin pad that required a seven digit code and the door mat read 'Home to the Jolliest Bunch of Arseholes.'

Pam opened the door a few moments later. The short round woman had an apron on.

"Lucas Lahey," she chimed in her thick British accent. "Come in, come in. You're just in time. Smell that? I've been baking. I need a cut throat honest opinion and you are just the man for it. Your sister is too nice. Can't trust that kind of sweetness to give some real feedback.

"Just like my cousin, Kat. Tells a person one thing to her face, bitches about the same thing to another. She's got a new job. She's a waitress at some hot spot in the middle of London. So now of course, she thinks she's the most superior lass on the planet because she poured wine for Tom Hittledon. Whoever that is."

Pam is the coolest. She is. Her one flaw might be that she likes to share the smallest details that are not in the slightest, related to the topic.

She is an absolute whizz in the kitchen though. She reminded me of a strawberry blonde Nigella Lawson. Looks and all.

Their home wasn't quite as clean cut and aesthetic on the inside as it was on the outside.

She'd added her own touch to the place. The living room was full of antique cabinets that held porcelain dolls and china plates. The couch was vintage with gold and cream pattern. Tall vases and an old coat rack sat in the foyer.

The kitchen had teapots with cosies sat on the window sill, vintage recipe books and retro appliances. It was an odd scheme for such a modern house. But somehow, it worked.

It added character.

"Right, I've been doing a bit of shortbread this afternoon. But I just can't seem to get the consistency right," she explained, walking over the kitchen island where a stack of cookies were sitting on a wooden cooling rack.

If they tasted as good as they smelled, then there shouldn't be an issue.

"You know I'm just a little frazzled. I spoke to my Mother in London this morning. The daft cow has put her bloody hip out. She was climbing a ladder? Can you believe that?! At her age?! You should have heard the berating that I gave her. She doesn't know how to sit her arse down and hire a bloke to clean out her gutters. Daft old woman, cleaning the gutters at her age."

I picked up a piece of shortbread and grinned. "You know, when you said she put her hip out, I was expecting a saucier story."

"So was I!" She cried. "At least it would've been worth it, right? If she'd been getting a bit of action. Nope. That woman hasn't had the touch of a man since I was conceived. I'm sure of it. She's too bloody old now. She'd put the other hip out. Or a shoulder. What a mess."

I laughed and attempted not to shower the countertop with crumbs.

"This is so fucking good Mrs Jones," I said with a full mouth.

"Told you, Mum," Milly's voice pulled me to the kitchen entrance where she walked in wearing a pair of leggings and a loose tank top. Her hair was wrapped in a bun and she looked fresher than she had this morning. "No one was having you on. The shortbread is fantastic."

"You're a gentleman," Pam said. "But how many times have I told youI did not keep the last name, Jones, as Milly did."

"Yeah I know," I said. "But Mrs Jones just sounds hotter than Mrs Arnold. No offence to Stu. Mrs Jones sounds like a sexy secret agent. You know, badass."

She curled over in a fit of giggles, her pale cheeks blushing brighter than her red slacks. "Perhaps I should have kept that name then. You know after Milly's father died I never imagined that I would get re married but then Stu just appeared. Poof! Just like that. Poof! Quite unexpected.

"Such a good man. I felt a bit strange about not keeping the same last name as Milly but he assured me that it was quite normal. He spun the marriage argument. Not our marriage. Milly's! He said that one day she would get married and we wouldn't have the same last name then. So what did it matter if it changed now. That made sense I suppose—"

"Mum," Milly interrupted. "You've told Lucas this exact story about seventeen times."

"Tosh," Pam scolded. "More shortbread, Lucas?"

"No thanks, Mrs Jones," I held up the half eaten piece in my hand as I wandered over to where Mills was standing "It's good though. Too bad you're a married woman. I'd snatch up a lass that can bake like this."

"You hear that, Mills," she called after us as we headed into the corridor. "Men appreciate decent baking. You better join me from now on. Learn a thing or two."

"I know how to bake," Milly called over her shoulder as we went upstairs. "And the only way that I'll do that for a man is if he knows what the hell he's doing in my knickers. No orgasm, no homemade lemon pie."

Her mother's response was almost inaudible. But it sounded as if she supported the concept. Which wasn't a surprise.

Milly could suggest joining a cult, becoming part of a sister wives marriage and living on acid and her Mom would go along with it. Pam was supportive as hell. Perhaps to a fault.

We reached the top of the staircase and I almost felt a sweat forming over the fact that I had to keep certain comments to myself.

There were multiple jokes sitting on the tip of my tongue. Ones that included her needing to get that lemon pie in the oven because I knew exactly what I was doing.

It was the instinct to take the opening when it was presented. But I knew it was important to keep a lid on the crude jokes. Out of respect for Amalia.

"Bothered much?" Mills asked. "I can just imagine the jokes that you want to come out with right now."

"So many of them," I said but stopped her before she could open her bedroom door. "What's going on with Abby? Is she alright?"

"She's fine," Mills folded her arms. "Yeah she's over it now. It was so stupid to begin with. Flynn made some comment about how Abby should have left with us last night. He pointed out the fact that you always jump when she needs you and she should have done the same. She got defensive. No doubt knew he was right. But they're fine now and have been making kissing noises at each other over the phone for the last half n hour."

I sighed but wasn't all that surprised. It wasn't uncommon for my little sister to overreact to something and have a tantrum.

I wouldn't call my sister selfish. Perhaps just a little shortsighted from time to time. If you gave her a bit of space, she would often realise what she'd done wrong and fix it. It just wasn't immediate.

Before I could open the bedroom door, Milly gripped my arm and stopped me. Her expression was pensive as she shifted on the spot. "Have you talked to Amalia?"

"No. But I'm going to."

She watched the carpet, chewing on her bottom lip. "She's going to hate me. I keep thinking about how hurt she'll feel. You don't think Jorjia will squeal first?"

"I don't think so. She's manipulative and dedicated to proving her point. But stooping to snitching isn't her style," I slipped my hands into my pockets to refrain from pulling Mills into a comforting hug. "I can leave you out of it? If you want? Not tell her who it was that I kissed?"

She lifted her head and met my eyes with appreciation in her own. "No, that's alright. I'm not a coward. I screwed up and I'll own that. Even if she does attempt to beat me to death with a baseball bat."

Before I could answer, the door to her bedroom flew open and Abby stood in front of us in last nights outfit. Blue joggers and grey crop top. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were darker than Jorjia's soul.

For a moment I wondered if she'd heard our conversation. But then she smiled and lifted her phone to her ear.

"Babe? Yeah he is here. Yes I'm fine. I'll see you in the gym soonish. Love you."

She hadn't heard us because if she had she would have had me in a headlock by now. She hung up the phone and I swallowed down the lump that had formed in my throat.

"Is Flynn coming over for a work out tonight?"

She blinked. "If that's what you want to call it."

"Are you fucking with me?" I snapped. "I use that equipment."

"Settle down. I'm not using the jump rope as a whip. But I don't have a door. What do you want me to do? Mom and Dad could walk past and I doubt that they want to see my legs above my head whi—"

"Shut the fuck up," I pushed her face with my open hand. "I'll fix the door. Tonight. Flynn can help instead of putting his fucking genitals all over my bench press."

Milly giggled beside me and I think that was the first time she had blatantly laughed at something crude I said and not bitten back with some comment about how I had probably put my genitals on the bench press first.

"Luc lets not pretend that you don't bend girls over in front of the mirror just to watch yourself going to pound town," Milly continued to laugh and adopted a deep taunting voice. "Ooh damn, you look so good-" high pitch voice - "ooh ahh thanks Lucas-" deep voice - "Bitch, I meant me."

Spoke too soon I suppose.

"Are you done?" I sighed at the girls who were pretending to hit it from behind while they flexed their biceps and grunted through uncontrollable laughter. "I have never done that. The gym is a sacred place. I have a mirror in my bedroom for flexing and fucking."

Milly's laughter became louder. "You even have a name for it. What a toss."

"It was a joke," I said, pretending as though she wasn't giving me immense and vivid ideas. "Abby can we go now. Dad will be home soon and he's going to yell at you for missing the call with Max."

"No he's not," she argued. "Besides, I talk to Max all the time."

Regardless of her argument, we did leave. After Pam chewed our ears off about her husbands horrible hours on night shift and the fact that she can't sleep when he's not home.

The stress stemmed from her great Aunt Florence, who was murdered in her sleep during a home invasion or something along those lines.

There was a lot to absorb and as hard as I tried not to, I found I spent most of the time watching Mills. But we made it out eventually.

On the drive home, Abby apologized for being difficult and not leaving Ingrid's when I wanted to.

It didn't bother me. She wasn't the only one that had made mistakes under the influence last night. Mine was a lot worse but now wasn't the right time to bring it up.

I wasn't sure she ever needed to know. The more people that knew, the more humiliated Amalia would feel. That wasn't fair on her.

We walked inside when we got home, the door had barely closed when we heard Mom and Dad shouting about something in the kitchen.

Both of us froze. I also wondered where Spencer and Nathan were because it wouldn't be surprising if the argument was going down in front of them.

But it wouldn't be cool either. We stood in the foyer and there was an unspoken agreement to listen in.

"You did move it!" Mom shouted, the sound of a hand slamming on the countertop. "I know you did. No one else would have."

"I didn't touch it!" Dad shouted back.

The argument must have been going on for a while. It took a decent length of time before the raised voices began.

Unless Mom had been drinking.

"You did! You fucking fidget with everything when you're on the phone. You walk around tinkering and moving stuff. Just last week you broke my gravy boat, swinging it around on your finger like a damn pair of keys while you talked that asshole Grayson!"

Dad let out a frustrated groan. "It's been almost twenty years, Woman! Can we move on. Please!"

"I'll move on when I want to move on!"

"You're so fucking irrational when you've been drinking."

There we go.

"I have not been drinking!" Mom argued at a decibel louder than she'd been before. The slur in her words would indicate otherwise.

"You've had four margaritas. What do you call that?!"

"I call it stress relief damn it and it's not fucking working!"

"You know what will work?"

"Don't even. Do not—"

"Pounding it out."

Fucks sakes.

"Come on woman, upstairs."

There was a quiet pause. A long pause. I thought Mom might have murdered Dad until we heard them stumbling towards the kitchen threshold.

Abby and I did a speed dart towards the living room and stood out of sight in the dark. The sound of lips smacking accompanied the footsteps that were heading upstairs.

Abby pretended to gag and I thought I might actually lose the shortbread I'd consumed an hour ago.  I honestly fucking hate my life sometimes.

In the morning, after another restless night, I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.

I was so wound up. I was anxious. I felt nauseous about the fact I had to fess up to Amalia this morning.

It wasn't that I was scared of losing her - that was disappointing though - it was about the fact she would be hurt and she didn't deserve to feel as though she wasn't good enough. Because she is. I'm the one that has the problem.

A short response to Amalia's text asking if we were still on today was all I could manage.

Yep. Ready when you are.

She didn't reply. She was probably curious as to why I could respond to her text message but not answer one of her several calls that had come in over the weekend.

All morning I was walking around in a frenzied daze. My jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. Whoever tried to converse with me was tuned out for the simple fact I couldn't focus or think straight.

My heart pounded while I showered. I couldn't even eat and I hated skipping a decent breakfast. But the fact I felt like throwing up was just too much to consider consuming food.

When I was crouched in front of the door, tucking the laces of my vans under the shoe tongue, the doorbell rang and if I thought my heart rate was concerning before, it had reached a new level of speed with the simple sound of that chime.

"I'll get it," I called but the words were mumbled so I cleared my throat and shouted it louder to no one in particular. "I'll get it."

I pulled the door open and my shoulders dropped.

Jorjia. Again with her impeccable timing. She was wearing a t-shirt today, a long white one that came to her thighs and my internal question over how tattooed she was, was answered without me asking.

From her fingertips to her collarbones, was ink. Colours were mixed in with the black shading and it did look good. She was wearing a new pair of thigh high boots. Grey suede ones and her long black hair was pulled into a braid.

"What in the fuck do you want?!"

_____

After last updates comments, I sure some hope some of y'all have never made a mistake in your lives. Lol.