“It’s cool, really.”
She smiled and rested her head against the door frame. “I heard you playing. I’m so glad you kept it up. You’ve always been so talented.”
“Not really. I just like it. But thanks.” Even as I said it, I knew I sounded like Juliette.
“Mama, Ollie taught me how to play ‘Let It Go’ on guitar,” Crista piped up in a muffled voice as she pulled her pajama shirt over her head.
Aunt Linda shot me a look that was half sheer terror, half witch hunt. The face of someone at peak Frozen saturation.
I didn’t, I swear, I mouthed, making chopping motions by my neck.
I was saved by Dylan returning with his chi chi, which he’d apparently found in the pantry, next to the Nutella jar. Aunt Linda retreated to the kitchen, and I worked through the bedtime routine of checking under the b
