Free Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single by Heather McElhatton Page A

knew there was a son to the Keller dynasty that was my age? Listen to me, “dynasty.” That’s why I don’t have a dynasty, because I use words like “dynasty.” That and because the Cinnabon counter girl knows my name.
    I take my time getting to the house, which is a sweet and tidy brick Tudor with wooden crossbeams and a steep slate roof. In summer, the automatic sprinklers come on every evening at five, just in time for Mr. Anderson, the cranky neighbor, to come home from work and yell about his car getting wet. My mother reset the timer after he cut down a crabapple tree that was partially on their property. My mother loved that tree. She arranged pink blossom bouquets in the spring and made crabapple centerpieces in the fall. Ever since he claimed it was in the way of his satellite dish and thwacked it with a chainsaw, my mother has passive-aggressively tortured him with ill-timed sprinkler systems, early morning broadcasts of the Royal Danish Orchestra, and convincing his wife every home ought to have copper gutters.
    My mother opens the door frowning.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œJust don’t start,” she says.
    This is a typical greeting.
    I go inside. My mother’s house is very comfortable, warm, and cheerful and perfectly decorated like a Pottery Barn catalogue. I’ve always wanted my house to look like this, but it’shard to get a crappy apartment to look like anything but a crappy apartment.
    I shout hello to my father, who’s watching the news in his den, and he grunts hello back. He probably won’t come out all night and I don’t blame him. The estrogen level in this house is reaching all-time-high levels and the best thing to do is strap yourself down and hang on. I, of course, have to dive into the disaster and I really don’t know if there’s enough liquor in the world to get me through this.
    I hear girl-cackle in the kitchen.
    â€œDid you bring the salsa?” Hailey snaps.
    I close my eyes. Super. I forgot the freaking salsa.
    â€œMom!” she whines. “Jen forgot the salsa!”
    â€œDon’t make a fuss,” my mother says, opening the pantry door. “I bought some just in case.”
    â€œWhy do you even need salsa?” I ask. “Look at this spread! Mom, did you do all this?”
    She shoots me a look. Of course she did all this.
    I turn my attention to the herd of sturdy Norwegian girls flanking Hailey, who have all been her BFFs since high school. They all look like inbred cousins, they’re so similar, with their wheat-blond hair and ice blue eyes. They’re like Children of the Corn or something, and I’ve always suspected that if they were smarter, they might actually have some super power, but things standing as they are, I don’t foresee any trouble.
    â€œHi, Lexi!” I say. “Hey, did you lose weight?”
    â€œMe?” Lexi screeches. “No! I’m like a cow.”
    â€œReally? Dairy or beef? Beef probably, huh?”
    She’s confused.
    â€œIs this champagne?” I pick up a glass.
    â€œHave a date for your sister’s wedding yet?” someone asks me. They don’t mean any harm by this, they’re just trying tobe nice, and since every single tan, tawny one of them is already married, they don’t know the question is like salt in my eyeball.
    â€œWell, I met Ed Keller’s son today,” I tell them. “Brad.”
    â€œReally?” my mom brightens. “He sounds nice.”
    â€œOh yeah, as if ,” Hailey says, rolling her eyes.
    My eyes narrow and I take a sip of pink champagne. “Hey, Mom, where’s the pickle dish?”
    â€œWhat pickle dish?”
    â€œThe pickle dish. Your heirloom pickle dish.”
    â€œWhere it always is, I guess. The sideboard.”
    I study the little bubbles in my drink and say, “I don’t think so.”
    Hailey glares at me.
    My mother stops reloading chips into the