Dr. Ramirez, Dad's colleague who delivered me almost twenty-three years ago, raises his glass. "We always knew you'd do something important, Janie. Your mother used to bring you to the hospital in that little carrier, and you'd watch everything with those big eyes."
A balloon skims my shoulder before my nephew, Tyler, barrels past, laughter spilling out of him. Emma shrieks, chasing after her brother, curls flying. Their noise cuts through the adult hum, impossible to ignore.
On the porch, Cile, Blake's wife, kneels with Tyler’s beat-up giraffe, brushing off the grass while balancing Emma’s juice cup in her other hand. Effortless. Like she was built for this.
Something tugs loose inside me. Not longing, exactly, more like an ache I can’t name. I’ve never pictured myself with a stroller in one hand and a diaper bag in the other.
My three-year plan is airtight: Fellowship, Master's, Director role. End of story.
Sometimes I wonder if that kind of life even leaves room for a family.
Blake never wondered. He was married by twenty, had two kids before twenty-six. Emma and Tyler, practically twins only ten months apart, with their matching blue eyes and sticky hands, are proof of the path he chose.
Like always, Blake chose the safe, steady one. I've always been more of a rebel in that sense. Always seeking adventure, to break out of the mold.
"—and how will you handle the winter?" Mrs. Delaney is asking, her face a mask of performative concern.
"I bought boots. And thermal everything." I acceptanother glass from a passing tray. "My apartment is within walking distance to the hospital, so I won't freeze to death going to work or class."
I steal another glance at the kids, now being herded by Dad into some kind of game. His gray-blond head bends down to listen to Tyler, his patience infinite.
When did Dad get so gray? When did my niece get tall enough to reach the dessert table without standing on tiptoe?
"Janie! You haven't eaten a thing." Mom materializes beside me, plate loaded with Dad's famous smoked brisket and her potato salad. "Here. You're too thin already."
"Mom, I'm fine?—"
"Margaret’s right," Mrs. Delaney chimes in. "Chicago will blow you away if you don't put some meat on those bones."
Dad appears behind Mom, sliding an arm around my shoulders. "Leave her be, Mags. Our girl knows what she's doing."
His quiet pride washes over me. A lump forms in my throat.
"Everyone!" Mom taps her glass. "Toast time!"
The toasts start with Dad, his voice steady and warm as sun-baked wood. His calloused hand rests on my shoulder, anchoring me as he speaks about persistence and dreams.
"To our Janie, who's never been afraid to reach for the stars, even when they're covered in Chicago snow."
Everyone laughs, glasses lifted in my direction. The fairy lights overhead blur as my vision mists. I blink rapidly, determined not to cry.
Mom follows with something about how proud she is, how I've always been her determined girl. Then Blake, making everyone roar with a story about me at twelve,declaring I'd run the hospital one day while wearing a stethoscope made from pipe cleaners.
"Don't make me come up there to tell those yankees to keep their mits off of you. I'll do you. You know I will." He tips his head at me and raises an eyebrow.
Oh, I know you will, protective brother.
I’m just starting to breathe again when Warren steps forward, champagne glass catching the light. I clear my throat, bracing for whatever my brother’s best friend is about to say. He’s been orbiting my world since before middle school—part of every holiday, every heartbreak, every milestone that mattered. Protective when he wanted to be, irritating when he thought I needed it. The kind of constant that starts to feel like gravity.
But as he lifts his glass, something shifts. The overhead lights trace the hard line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair. He’s always been the dependable one—steady, kind, built like he could shoulder the world if it asked him to.
I’ve just never reallylookedbefore. The realization hits quick, unsettling, like seeing a familiar photograph in sharper focus. I tell myself it’s the champagne talking, but the shiver that follows doesn’t feel imaginary.
"I remember when I moved in during senior year." Warren's smile creases the corners of his eyes. "Back when Janie was all braces and oversized sweatshirts, trailing after us like a shadow."
Heat floods my face as laughter ripples across the deck. Blake elbows Warren, grinning.
"And Blake made it very clear," Warren continues, mock-serious, "his little sister was strictly off-limits."