I’m still standing on the other side of the bar, not far from the battle, but far enough I haven’t been hit. I slowly edge myself back, knowing from experience that moving bodies are usually the first to be targeted.
I make it a safe distance back and reach for my phone and ensure that the flash is off, before I begin snapping pictures of them as they exchange threats and fists of flour while laughing.
“Ace, you better delete those!” Kendall yells.
I pocket my phone and duck as the attention turns to me, bringing with it a cloud of flour. I’m not sure who gets me first, but within moments my clothes and hair are all coated in the fine powder.
“No more! No more!” Jenny laughs, sealing what’s left of the bag of flour.
“Seriously, you still haven’t outgrown this?” Mom’s voice draws every pair of eyes on her as she and Dad enter the kitchen holding bags of groceries. She walks to the sink and washes her hands silently, and I can feel the trepidation roll from all three of the guys as they look around at the mess of white surrounding us. Without warning, she turns, opens the bag of flour and throws a large handful at my dad who’s standing beside me.
He cries out in protest, releasing a slew of threats, as he grabs my arms and pulls me in front of him as a human shield, making us the target. I shriek and close my eyes until something distracts them from us, and they begin throwing the flour at each other again.
The fight continues until the bag of flour is completely depleted, and the kitchen is nearly completely coated, making the hardwood floors slippery. I peel off my sweatshirt, causing billows of flour to fall to the ground, and wipe my hands on the front of my jeans. As I watch the flour fall, a large glob of flour lands in the center of my chest.
“You looked a little too clean.” Jameson shrugs innocently.
I shake my head and grab an acorn-shaped cookie cutter and make quick work of stamping a disc of dough that Jenny had rolled out.
When we finish making cookies, which is quick considering how many we’ve made, the kitchen’s a disaster. The mood is vibrant with everyone smiling happily as jokes are made and stories are shared. At one point I look up to realize that Jenny is holding her beloved camera taking candid pictures of us all as we finish stacking cookies on cooling racks.
She then forces us all to pose for a few shots, making Kendall grumble and whine about her hair before Dad grabs her and hauls her to his side, waiting until she finally gives a smile.
“Okay, you kids have one hour while I get this place back in order, then you girls are back in here on pie duty,” Mom says, returning with the vacuum. “If you’re going in the pool go hose off first, last year y’all clogged the drain with all the flour.”
“Last year?” Wes asks shock evident on his face.
“They love food fights, the messier the better,” Dad explains, shaking his head in defeat. “They learned it from their mom. She taught them that goofy trap of ‘whoever does this will be in big trouble.’”
“Who fell for it?” Mom asks with a grin.
“Jameson,” Kendall responds with a laugh that my parents share with her.
“Don’t worry, Caulder still falls for it,” Mom says, patting Jameson on the shoulder.
“Yeah, he’ll be happy to hear there was a new sacrificial lamb,” Dad jokes, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s the role I’ve always worked so hard to fill,” Jameson replies with a straight face, and I feel my heart grow a little bigger as I watch him joke with my family. I know he’s a member of my family. No one could be better for Kendall. It’s as though he was artfully and specifically created just for her.
“T-minus ten minutes until you’re in that pool.” Jameson looks directly at Kendall before the three boys make their way to the door.
Kendall and I aren’t about to take the chance of them using the hose on us, and therefore change dangerously fast, working to make sure everything is properly covered as we dash outside and assist one another in getting the flour out of our hair before we immerse ourselves in the pool that even in November is nearly as warm as bath water.
The boys come barreling through the yard, bare chested and in their swim shorts. Even though I see Max without his shirt on a daily basis these days, I still turn to check him out and feel myself swoon over his deliciously sculpted body.
Jameson goes for a cannonball and slides at the very end, barely making a safe entrance into the pool.
“What in the hell was that?” Max asks when Jameson emerges whipping his head back.
“It was slippery,” he says, swimming over to where we’re standing in the shallow end. His chest rises out of the water and his movements change as he starts walking rather than swimming toward us. “Did you see how smooth I pulled that—”
His words cease as his head falls under the water for an instant before he pops back up, running a hand over his head. “I’m right on the ledge,” he quickly states, and I can’t help but laugh at him as Max and Wes give him a hard time.
The five of us play around, shooting the basketball and bobbing in the warm water, still laughing about the flour fight as Wes retells his perspective of the battle that has us all bent over in laughter because Wes is that kind of storyteller, a natural with tones and voices, knowing exactly when to pause and how long to hold it for suspense.
“Pie time!” Jenny yells out the back door.
I leisurely swim my way to Max and wrap myself around his chest.
“I love you,” I say, kissing his soft lips before pulling back and looking him straight in the eye. “Don’t let Jameson drown. I kind of like having him around.” I vaguely hear Jameson brush off my comment as Max smiles and wraps one hand around my lower back and another between my shoulder blades, pressing me tightly to his chest as he kisses me as though the others aren’t feet from us.
I give him one last parting kiss before swimming to the edge of the pool and pulling myself out. I walk the few steps to my towel and wrap it around my bright coral printed bikini, and smile as I look back to see Max closely watching my every move.
That night Sharon and the boys join us as we order pizzas for dinner. Mom has a strict rule about not cooking the day before Thanksgiving. I discover that it must be a prerequisite for Max’s friends to be fluent in cars, because Wes seems to have an endless amount of knowledge about them as well and is thrilled to hear about Clementine and the chance to see her. They start her up and rev her engine in the driveway, admiring her as us girls shake our heads at their enthusiasm and go back inside to discuss Kendall’s trip to Washington.
“I’m beat,” Dad says, rolling his head back as they return inside. “You ready, mon moitié?” he asks, looking to my mom as she smiles at him.
Sharon stands and asks for Max to come help her with getting a few things prepared for tomorrow. She hugs each of us goodnight and then leaves for next door, followed by Max after he gives me a quick parting kiss.
“What did your dad say?” Wes asks quietly as my parents make their way up the stairs talking in hushed tones.
“Some term of endearment,” Kendall answers with a shrug.
“In what language?” he asks, furrowing his brows.
“French,” she answers, standing to help me clear the remaining plates and garbage from the table. “Our grandmother is Puerto Rican and our grandfather is French.”
“His English is perfect.”
“Yeah, he grew up here in the states. Our grandfather travelled a lot before ending up in Ontario where he worked as a translator. He had gone to Puerto Rico for business and met our grandma. They moved to the states, got married, and had our dad. They lived in Colorado for twenty years and then moved back to France when our great aunt got sick.”
“So he speaks French and English?”
“And Spanish,” I add, taking the empty boxes to the garage for recycling.
“That’s crazy.” Wes says, looking at us in disbelief. “Can you guys speak French and Spanish as well?”