Love Like This

8 | just a phase

Oakley, a fair skinned boy with blond hair to match and eyes so blue the ocean is jealous, runs wildly around the kitchen island, a sticky can of lemonade in his dirty hands. I reach to cover the corner of the granite counter top just in time to save his skull. I keep it there as his brother, a dark skinned boy with a head of similarly colored curls that bounce as he runs, soon follows.

With my hand to protect their faces from the corner, they run past unscathed.

"Oakley! That's not fair, you got the last Dr. Pepper! I want the last lemonade!" Arlo, the boy with the voluminous curls, can be heard shouting from somewhere in the dining room.

A dining room, I might add, that my mother never let myself or my brother go into except for special occasions, like the major holiday parties they still like to throw.

I'm still scared to walk too heavily in that dining room, the rattle of Mom's good china triggering my fight-or-flight response to this day.

"Boys!" Mom - my mom, their grandmother - shouts at them without even looking up, her focus intent on the homemade pizza she is currently shoving into the oven. "Split the lemonade into two cups or neither one of you will get it!" More shouting from the dining room follows, and Mom adds "Or dessert!"

Suddenly, two boys, each seven years old, are in the kitchen with us, eyes big like saucers. "No dessert?" Arlo asks, just as Oakley whines, "But your cookie dough cheesecake is my favorite!"

Hands on her hips, Mom turns to her grandsons and raises a brow. "Maybe if you ask nicely your aunt will pour you some of that lemonade over ice."

"He can have it, I don't want it anymore!" Oakley continues to complain as I reach into the cupboard and take out two plastic cups. They're exactly where they've always been - in fact, I think they belonged to my brother and me before they became the "grandkid cups."

"I said to share it." Mom tuts, turning back to the stovetop and the next ball of pizza dough she's going to knead.

"You better do what she says," I say, winking conspiratorially at them as Oakley hands over the lemonade. "Legend says, if you don't listen to her, she'll turn into a witch."

"A witch?" Arlo groans, eyeing his grandmother seriously. "But how do you know?" His brother speaks over him.

"Don't you trust Auntie Summer? I was a kid too once, you know. I saw the witchy side many times, just ask your Daddy." I smirk as Mom shoots me a dirty look over her shoulder, flour from the dough caked into her greying hair. Satisfied, I slide both boys a glass of warm lemonade.

Making my way to the freezer, I pop out several icecubes just as Ricky joins us in the kitchen.

"And speak of the devil," I mutter at his presence. "I was just telling Arlo and Oakley about how Mom turns into a witch when you don't do what she says. Go on, you two, ask him."