I lean my hip into the counter and watch her begin chopping the tomato. I have to bite my tongue because she’s slicing the tomato way too thick. The big sister in me still wants to take over and correct her, even in our thirties.

But seriously, though. I could get three slices of tomato out of one of hers.

“Stop judging me,” she says.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You know I don’t cook.”

“That’s why I was offering to slice the tomato.”

Jenny holds the knife up like she’s going to cut me. I raise defensive hands and then push myself up onto the counter next to her.

“So,” Jenny says, side-eyeing me. I can tell by the tone of her voice she’s about to say something she knows I’m going to disagree with. “Jonah and I decided to get married.”

Surprisingly, I have no outward reaction to that comment. But inside, those words feel like claws, hollowing out my stomach. “He proposed?”

She lowers her voice to a whisper because Jonah is in the living room. “Not really. It was more of a discussion. It makes sense for it to be our next move.”

“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jenny narrows her eyes at me. “Like your proposal was any different?”

“Touché.” I hate it when she makes good points. But she’s right. There wasn’t a fancy proposal—or even a plain proposal. The day after I told Chris I was pregnant, he said, “Well, I guess we should get married.”

I said, “Yeah, I guess.”

And that was that.

We’ve been happily married seventeen years now, so I don’t know why I’m judging Jenny for the situation she got herself in. It just feels different. Jonah and Chris are two completely different people, and at least Chris and I were in a relationship when I got pregnant. I’m not even sure what’s going on with Jonah and Jenny. They haven’t spoken since the summer after he graduated, and now he’s suddenly back in our lives and potentially our family?

Jonah’s father died last year, and even though none of us had seen or spoken to him in years, Jenny decided to go to the funeral. They ended up having a one-night stand, but then he flew back home to Minnesota the next day. A month later, she found out she was pregnant.

I’ll hand it to Jonah: he did step up to the plate. He got his life tied up in Minnesota and moved back here a month before Jenny was due. Granted, that was only three months ago, so I guess my hesitation comes more from not really knowing who Jonah is at this point in his life. They dated for two months when Jenny was in high school, and now he moved across the country to raise a child with her.

“How many times have the two of you even had sex?”

Jenny looks at me in shock, like my question is too intrusive.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, stop acting modest. I’m serious. You had a one-night stand and then didn’t see him until you were nine months pregnant. Have you even been cleared by your doctor yet?”

Jenny nods. “Last week.”

“And?” I ask, waiting for her to answer my question.

“Three times.”

“Including the one-night stand?”

She shakes her head. “Four, I guess. Or . . . well . . . five. That night counts as two times.”

Wow. They’re practically strangers. “Five times? And now you’re marrying him?”

Jenny is finished cutting the tomatoes. She plates them and starts slicing up an onion. “It’s not like we just met. You liked Jonah just fine when I dated him in high school. I don’t understand why you have an issue with it now.”

I pull back. “Uh . . . let’s see. He dumped you, moved to Minnesota the next day, disappeared for seventeen years, and now he suddenly wants to commit to you for the rest of his life? I think it’s odd that you think my reaction is odd.”

“We have a child together, Morgan. Is that not the same reason you’ve been married to Chris for seventeen years?”

There she goes, bringing up another good point.

Her phone rings, so she wipes her hands and pulls it out of her pocket. “Speaking of your child.” She answers her cell. “Hey, Clara.”

She has it on speakerphone, so it stings when I hear Clara say, “You aren’t with my mother, are you?”

Jenny’s eyes widen in my direction. She begins backing toward the kitchen door. “Nope.” Jenny takes the phone off speaker and disappears into the living room.

It doesn’t bother me that Clara always calls my sister for advice, rather than asking me. The problem is Jenny has no idea how to give Clara advice. She spent her twenties partying, struggling through nursing school, and coming to me when she needed a place to stay.

Usually when Clara calls Jenny with something important that Jenny doesn’t know how to answer, she’ll make an excuse to hang up, and then she’ll call me and relay everything. I’ll tell her what to tell Clara; then she’ll call Clara back and relay the advice like it came from her.

I like the setup, although I’d much rather Clara just ask me. But I get it. I’m her mom. Jenny is the cool aunt. Clara doesn’t want me to know about certain things, and I get that. She’d die if she knew that I was aware of some of her secrets. Like when she asked Jenny to make her an appointment to get on birth control a few months ago, just in case.

I hop off the counter and continue slicing the onion. The kitchen door swings open, and Jonah walks in. He nudges his head toward the cutting board. “Jenny told me I have to take over because you aren’t allowed to do anything.”

I roll my eyes and drop the knife, moving out of his way.

I stare at his left hand, wondering what a wedding ring is going to look like on his ring finger. It’s hard for me to imagine Jonah Sullivan committing to someone. I still can’t believe he’s back in our lives, and now he’s here, in my kitchen, chopping onions on a cutting board that was given to me and Chris at the wedding Jonah didn’t even attend.

“You okay?”

I look up at Jonah. His head is tilted, his cobalt eyes full of curiosity as he waits for me to answer him. Everything inside of me feels like it thickens—my blood, my saliva, my resentment.

“Yeah.” I flash a quick smile. “I’m fine.”

I need to give my focus to something else—anything else. I walk to the refrigerator and open it, pretending to look for something. I’ve successfully avoided one-on-one conversation with him since he moved back. I don’t feel like making it a thing right now. Especially on my birthday.

The kitchen door swings open, and Chris walks in with a pan of burgers fresh off the grill. I close the refrigerator and stare at the kitchen door, which continues to swing back and forth behind him.

I hate that door more than I hate any other part of this house.

I’m grateful for the house, don’t get me wrong. Chris’s parents gave it to us as a wedding present when they moved to Florida. But it’s the same house Chris grew up in, and his father, and his grandfather. The house is a historical landmark, complete with the little white sign out front. It was built in 1918 and reminds me daily that it’s over a century old. The creaky floorboards, the plumbing that’s constantly in need of repair. Even after we remodeled six years ago, the age still screams out any chance it gets.