Becca
“Hey, you’re early. You must want to talk,” my youngest sister, Tatum, practically shouted as she ushered me through the door of our brother’s house in the Berkeley hills.
“Being early doesn’t mean anything except that traffic was light,” I denied, hoping to abort the conversation before it began. Of all my sisters, Tatum was best at reading me. She was one of those hyper emotionally intelligent people who heard a tiny sigh and could tell people half of what they didn’t even know they were thinking.
Maybe I did want to talk about Blake, even if I didn’t know it.
“I brought lemon cake.” I held up the box, trying to distract her with sweets.
“Delightful. I made cookies, but you’ll hate them.” Tatum was a good cook, but she’d recently gone vegan, and not all of her recipes tasted g
