Free The Perfect Life by Erin Noelle

anything out of place. Red Sox ballcap. Throwback Nomar Garciaparra jersey. Khaki shorts. Brown leather boat shoes. All systems go for a baseball game. “Wicked smaht,” I teased in a terrible fake Boston accent, trying to cheer him up. Then with a feisty smirk, I rose up on my toes to kiss his smooth cheek.
    “ Wicked is so last century, Roe,” Seth scolded me for at least the hundredth time since I’d moved there. I knew it always ruffled his feathers when I said the word known for its New England roots, so I indulged every chance I got. “If you want to stay in the locals’ good graces, you gotta cut—”
    The doorbell interrupted him again, but this time it was followed by a series of hard, persistent knocks on the door. Clearly irritated, Seth abandoned our conversation and stalked toward the front of the house, with me and Colin hot on his heels. Throwing the door open, he puffed his chest out and curled his hands into tight fists, ready to lay into his sister. However, the second he saw Effie standing on the front porch with mascara streaks staining her face and a bright pink nose, he forgot all about his anger and rushed to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and huddling her safely inside.
    Out of habit, Colin and I both scanned the area in the front of our house, checking the popular hiding spots for paparazzi. A couple of years before, Colin’s second on the Pats and his first as the starting quarterback, things got a little crazy with reporters and photographers following us around. Though it didn’t come close to comparing to what I’d witnessed in L.A. as a kid, it still wasn’t much fun to have our every move documented and scrutinized. We loved interacting and doing interviews when they were scheduled, but some mornings we would have a camera greet us the moment we walked out the door. Thankfully, a little while after the team’s loss in the second round of the playoffs, they moved their efforts onto others who were either more controversial, or whatever top athlete was making the nightly highlight reels.
    Because the NFL regular season still wasn’t set to kick off for another week, “Clutch Coverage,” as we jokingly called it in our house, wasn’t in full swing yet. However, we remained mindful and cautious, especially when we’re around any situation that could be viewed as contentious outside the security of our home. One snapshot of Effie in tears on our doorstep could be tomorrow’s top headline on a gossip site. “Trouble in Perfect Paradise: Star QB’s Mistress Confronts Wife.” Despite how ridiculously far off from the truth it would be, and regardless if people believed it or not, it could plant a seed of doubt, a sliver of distrust, and if something like that ever happened to Colin and me, support for the Mending Hearts home would be jeopardized.
    And that wasn’t part of the deal.
    “I don’t see anyone. Let’s get inside and make sure she’s okay,” Colin announced, his tone more gruff than normal. I wasn’t sure if he was more aggravated that his Funday Sunday with Seth was over, or because Effie had shown up not only late, but looking like an emotional wreck. My guess was an equal part combination of the two.
    Hastily shutting the door, we rushed back to the living room, where Seth had taken Effie to get her away from the front windows. He was standing with his hands on his hips and a frown wrinkling his chin, staring expectantly at her while she used the large framed mirror on the wall to wipe the black smudges from her face. “Okay, we’re all here now. Tell us what happened.”
    “Yeah, whose ass are we gonna have to kick on the way to the game? I told you to stay away from those Harvard punks,” Colin chimed in before she even had a chance to speak.
    I dramatically rolled my eyes at the over-the-top big brother act he always tried to pull with her, and when she cut her gaze from her own reflection over to where Colin stood with his brawny arms