“Oh, Penn, you don’t have to knock,” Elaine says with a light scold and a fluttering wave of her hand.
From inside, a loud meow slices through the air, followed by a piercing wail.
Guess Muffin—AKA Earl, the reincarnated hellcat—isn’t thrilled I’m back.
“Are you ready for lunch?” I ask, eyes landing on her fuzzy llama sweater and matching hat, complete with little ears flopping off the top.
I blink. “Let me guess… National Llama Day?”
She beams like she’s been waiting all morning for someone to ask. “You know it!”
I chuckle, already picturing the hoof-shaped cookies I know she baked this morning. “To think, if I’d come a day later, I’d have missed this majestic celebration.”
Aunt Elaine is, without question, the only person on earth who tracks National ‘Whatever’ Day with the same dedication most people reserve for tax season or playoff games. But hey, her weird little holiday cookies are actually kind of amazing.
“Let me just grab my coat. Come in.”
“I think I’ll wait out here,” I say, stretching my arms and tilting my face to the sun. “It’s too nice not to soak this in.”
She nods and disappears inside, leaving the screen door shut and the heavy wooden one open. I’m just admiring the quiet street when?—
WHAM.
Four clawed paws slam into the screen with demonic fury.
I lurch backward, catch my foot on the top stair, and go down like a sack of bricks—arms flailing, pride disintegrating—until I land flat on my back in the snow with a thud loud enough to wake the dead.
Smooth, Penn. Real smooth.
And to think I ever imagined I had the reflexes of a professional athlete.
I lie there for half a second, doing a quick inventory of bones and organs, then scramble upright, brushing snow off my jeans like it might somehow erase the embarrassment now radiating off me. Which, of course, is exactly when I hear it—the crunch of tires on snow, the low purr of a window rolling down.
No, no, no.
“Hey, Radman,” comes the too-familiar voice of Dylan-freaking-Hayes. “Or should I say… snowman?”
I glance up and yep, there he is, the human equivalent of a wedgie, leaning out his car window with that smug, punch-able grin.
“Hayes,” I mutter, nodding stiffly. My gaze flicks to the girl in his passenger seat. If she caught my fall, I’ll be a viral meme by dinner—but she’s too busy reapplying her lip gloss to notice I exist.
Small mercies.
“Is that Dylan?” Elaine’s voice drifts from the stoop as she emerges, pulling on wool mittens with little llama hooves knitted into the fingers. Of course.
“Hello, Elaine,” Dylan calls, all fake cheer and empty charm. “Happy holidays.”
“You too,” she sings back, then waves as he drives off. “Douchebag,” she mutters under her breath.
I blink. “What?”
“Moosh,” she says innocently. “Yiddish slang. It means affection.”
“Uh-huh. Since when do you speak Yiddish?”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “I watched Fiddler on the Roof last night.”
Sure.