"Hello?" I edge the kitchen door of the main house open with my hip, holding the mangled cookie box in my hands.
Calling it the main house makes it sound fancier than it is—especially when Aunt Betty says it in her Downton Abbey accent. We just started referring to it that way when I moved into the pool house. Don't get me wrong. It's a lovely home, craftsman-style with a wrap-around porch and blue-shuttered windows. But Rosedale is a pretty stereotypical working-class suburb. Betty might be an M.D., but she makes a fraction of what most doctors do.
She specializes in a holistic approach and owns her own practice. She'll spend hours with one patient, helping them figure out whatever's ailing them. She only charges people what they can afford. She advocates for universal health care and always speaks out about how it should be free for everyone.
Preach, sister. Preach.
"In here," Liv calls from the front room.
I kick off my shoes, sparing a moment of silence for my ruined boots. Pushing the door shut with my hip, I pad across the cool tile floor. The kitchen is pristine, all stainless steel and shiny surfaces—not because Betty and Liv are amazing housekeepers but because no one ever cooks here. In contrast, the buttery-yellow walls of the hallway are cluttered with photographs.
"Hey, Mom," I whisper like I always do when I pass a picture of us with Olivia and Betty at the county fair. It was taken the summer before Mom died. Her arms are around me, and we're all smiling hugely. From our matching single dimples to our round eyes, everyone says I'm my mom's mini-me. I think she looked more like Betty, though. Betty's hair is a dark chestnut, and my mom was a golden blond. Other than that, they were identical.
Liv's sprawled out on the red leather sofa, fanning herself with a magazine when I walk into the living room. There's a collection of tabloids on the old oak coffee table. The television is turned off for once, and Betty's sitting cross-legged in front of the built-in bookcase that overflows with her collection of VHS tapes and old Babysitter's Club paperbacks. I don't know another person who still owns VHS tapes, but that's Betty.
She's studying one of the magazine's crinkly pages. She glances up at me as I walk in. A mischievous grin stretches across her face. "Excuse me, miss. But do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, Zac Efron?" She flips the tabloid around with a flourish, revealing a full-page spread of the Zefron on a white, sandy beach.
"You know I only worship one man, my sweet Baby Hemsworth." I drop the cookies on the stack of magazines and flop back on my favorite squashy armchair. The fabric is worn from years of use.
"Amen." Liv swings her legs over the side of the couch, knocking a throw pillow to the floor as she sits up.
Betty gasps. "Blasphemous, children."
"Please tell me those are what I think they are." Liv points at the box of cookies. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail that manages to look both effortless and on-trend.
"If you think they're triple-chocolate-chunk cookies to bribe you for your forgiveness, then yes."
Liv squeals and lunges for the box.
"Wow, bribery cookies," Betty says. "What did you do?"
"Other than showing up late to Liv's party and pushing one of her guests in the pool, nothing." I shrug.
Betty nods, eyebrows raised in appreciation. "And the Academy Award goes to..."
"We're living with a regular Bette Davis over here." Liv shimmies the lid off the box and pauses. "Ummm, why are my apology cookies mutilated?"
I wince. "Would you believe me if I told you Nelson's is trying something new? Cookie crumbs. You know, like donut holes."
Liv does that eyebrow arch thing that I can't master, no matter how many hours I waste attempting to replicate it in my bathroom mirror.
Dropping my head back against the chair cushion, I groan. "Fine. You can thank Ty. He's what happened to your cookies."
"Ty? As in Ty Rossi?" Betty leans forward eagerly, elbows resting on the table.
"The one and only. He's home for the summer." I suck in a breath through my nose, inhaling the homey smell of Betty's country-apple candle.
"Ah. I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess he was the guest you pushed in the pool."
"I'm exercising my fifth amendment right to stay silent and protect the innocent, AKA myself."
Liv climbs to her feet. "I'm getting a spoon. I won't be deterred from devouring these cookies, crumbs and all."
"Loving your dedication," Betty calls after her as she pads toward the kitchen. "So," she turns to me, "can we expect a production every time you run into Ty this summer? Because if so, I'll get my popcorn ready."
I prop an elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning my head against my hand. "Is it wrong if you want to punch your ex-boyfriend in the face whenever you see them?"
"Honey, if that's wrong, then I don't want to be right." Betty shoves a handful of cookie crumbs in her mouth. "Why do you think I refuse to commit to a relationship status?"
Betty loves men. Dating them. Falling in love with them. But she loathes the idea of monogamous relationships. She said she tried it once in high school, and it wasn't for her. Betty was on a date with her latest man-friend last night; she thinks the word 'boyfriend' implies too much commitment. Which is why she missed the reunion episode of the Quinn and Ty show. For Betty, the best part of a relationship is always the beginning when you're all googly eyes and butterfly-filled stomachs.
While I respect that, I disagree. I think the greatest parts are when you're so comfortable with the other person you can be your true self. When you don't care if they see you in a messy bun and no makeup. When you know them so well, you can guess what they'll order at every restaurant and how they'll finish their sentences. I love the monotony of knowing what our plans will be every Friday night and having someone to depend on. I miss it.
"So, since we're talking about menfolk," Betty says, "your dad called."
"Of course he did." I sigh, but it's out of a fond kind of exasperation. I FaceTime my Dad daily, but he never believes I'm doing okay health-wise until he talks to Betty. I can't really blame him.
After my mom's car accident, my health spiraled, which isn't uncommon. Underlying chronic conditions are frequently triggered by grief. But MCAS isn't well-known, and it's difficult to diagnose. We saw nearly every specialist in New York City before Dad finally caved and sent me to Betty. He thought holistic medicine was too 'woo woo' back then. It took five years of me being sick and miserable before he was willing to let Betty try. Five. Years.
Betty was the only doctor to think outside the box enough to do the proper testing and get me a diagnosis. Her combination of traditional medication and changes to my diet and lifestyle have made all the difference—coming to live with Betty and Liv being one of those lifestyle changes. The crappy air in New York triggers my flare-ups, and since there isn't much demand for people who work in marketing here in Rosedale, Dad couldn't leave his job in the city.
"I told him you were doing great because you are, kid." Betty smiles warmly at me.
Her words give me that warm, snuggly feeling I used to get when my mom hugged me. "Thanks, Betty."
"So what do you think? Margaritas or Cape Cods?" Liv walks back into the room. She's holding two spoons, one bottle of tequila, and a bottle of vodka. She plops back down on the sofa, setting her goods on the table.
"Why not both?" Betty asks.
"It isn't even noon yet." I laugh. Betty may be a doctor, but that doesn't mean she's a healthy eater. Chronic illnesses run in families. My mom and grandmother both had Hashimoto's, which is why Betty got into medicine in the first place. But she and Liv seem to have escaped the curse so far. When it comes to diet, she's always telling me to do as she says and not as she does.
"Duh. Today's Thirsty Thursday. We need cocktails to quench ourselves after all this hotness." Liv gestures toward the magazines, which I now notice are all back copies of PEOPLE's Sexiest Man Alive issues.
"Riiiight." I bob my head in understanding. Betty decided to make each day Liv's home this summer a holiday with a different theme. She's even taking a couple weeks off work, which she never does.
"Don't you dare judge us, missy." Betty takes a spoonful of cookie crumbs. "It is essential to get a little tipsy to properly judge which Hollywood hunk has the best abs. Which reminds me, I have a six-pack of sparkling water in the fridge for you."
Water may not be quite as exciting as a cocktail, but it means I won't spend another sleepless night dealing with a flare-up, so I'll take it. "You're the real MVP, Betty."
I'm about to go grab a water when Liv says, "And speaking of hunks..."
I follow her gaze out the bay window. A beat-up Chevy truck I know all too well is pulling into the driveway, Ty Rossi behind the steering wheel.
"Nooooo," I moan, sinking back down on the chair.
"I know, right?" Betty says, sounding way too entertained by all this. "I haven't had time to make that popcorn yet."