My school, of course, would prefer students to operate completely online, but I avoid my computer at all costs. It’s slow and heavy, and I set my own study habits long enough ago for this to be my preferred way of working, anyway.

I guess I’m a little old-fashioned, but there’s something romantic about writing something with ink in my hand.

The downside, of course, is the inevitable hand cramps, but it’s a good sign that reminds me it’s time to call it quits. I clean up and wave goodbye to Marie, who insists on sending me home with another cookie.

I eat it in three bites as I drive.

“Another Italian night?” I call out when I unlock the front door of my house.

I could smell the basil and garlic from outside, and even though I ate many calories of desserts thanks to Marie, I need something substantial to soak up the coffee.

“Oh, hey,” James says.

My mom laughs at whatever he said before I arrived.

He dutifully sets the table with a set of our everyday plates. They all have chips in them because Audrey is as clumsy as she is beautiful, and my mom gave up on having nice dishware a long time ago.

“It’s lasagna night,” James explains with a full genuine grin.

I already know this, of course, but he’s excited because it’s his favorite meal.

I might be biased, but my mom makes it best. It’s one of those meals that tastes like home, and no restaurant can come close to replicating that. He definitely agrees.

James’s parents are really strict in general, but when it comes to dieting, it’s on another level entirely.

They encourage him to track his macronutrients, calories, and many other things I don’t bother understanding. He follows it enough to keep him in incredible running shape, but whenever he wants to dig through a pantry with processed snack food or have a meal that’s not ninety percent vegetables, he shows up at my house.

It’s just so normal to have him here that I can’t help but smile as he tries to find four matching forks in the silverware drawer.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask.

“Nothing special,” my mom answers, pulling everything out of the oven.

My mouth waters at how good the homemade garlic bread looks.

“Not true,” James says. “The favorite child is here, and he gets his way.”

It’s a long-running gag in our family that James wants to be number one on my parents’ list of children. He and my dad are super close, bonding over things I don’t have any interest in, like baseball and other forms of athleticism, and my mom always looks at him with pride.

I think most days James dethrones me from the top spot.

It goes without saying that Audrey and her bag—a full-sized checked bag, not a small carry-on—of problems is at the bottom. If she were here, she’d be arguing about how being the firstborn somehow influences her favor.

I’d indulge her but know she’s wrong.

“You’re all my favorites,” my mom insists.

It’s the line she always delivers.

“Not possible,” I say.

“I love you all the same.”

I roll my eyes. “But you like us all differently. I think we, honestly, should break down and create a point system or star chart or something.”

“Sure, if you want tangible proof of how you’re not in first place for the first time in your life,” James says.

I finish filling the water glasses. “Yeah right.”

“You have home field advantage and everything, so there’s really no excuse other than how great I am.”

“Stop bickering and sit,” my mom orders, gesturing to our usual seats.

We oblige, but our verbal spat turns into trying to get the best parts of each dish on the table.

The crispiest end piece of the lasagna.

The helping of salad with the most cheese.

The gooiest part of the oversized garlic bread.

My mom ignores this behavior by focusing on taking a long sip of wine. “Have you two thought about what you want to do for your birthday this year?”

“Anything involving matching outfits,” James jokes.

“Nope.” I shoot it down immediately. “Not happening.”

“But I got served this advertisement of matching underwear—”

I glare at him, effectively cutting him off.

I glance up at the many pictures of us on the walls where we are, in fact, wearing matching outfits. We stopped acting like twins and wearing matching outfits around our eighth birthday, but we’ve still always shared our parties. Usually, it’s just family, but occasionally, James has had a girlfriend and Audrey has had a boyfriend come along.

“I was thinking it might be fun for H and me to do a roadtrip on our own,” he suggests. “Maybe an early trip up to Cornell? That way we could go do all of those rites of passage eighteen year olds are supposed to do.”

“Like buy lottery tickets?” I ask innocently.

“Well, definitely not cigarettes,” my mom balks.

James mouths PORN! to me when she’s focused on her plate, but she still shuts the entire idea down.

“It’s one of the last birthdays we’ll all get to spend together. Who knows what you’ll be doing next summer. Audrey might stay up at school to pick up another minor, and Harper will be busy with her internship at the Press.”

“Don’t jinx it,” I jump in.

She sighs. “I just want eighteen to be a special one.”

“I thought it was our birthday,” I say seriously, but there’s an undercurrent of humor in my tone.

“Yes, it is the day that I gave birth to you, so I get to be a part of the celebration.”

“You’re not James’s mother,” I argue.

“A matter of time,” she laughs.

I roll my eyes and shove a huge forkful of lasagna in my mouth. It’s still a little too hot, so I blow hot air out of my mouth until my mom nudges the glass of ice water into my grasp.

James clears his throat. “Well, if it’s nice outside, maybe we could rent a boat for the day? Harper loved that sightseeing boat tour we did in seventh grade around the city. It’d be pretty cool to do that with just us.”

His thoughtfulness is surprising. “That could be fun,” I admit. “I’ll do some research on it this weekend if you want, Mom.”

“Sounds good,” she says, smiling at the both of us before she takes another sip of wine.

We fall into light planning and easy conversation for the rest of dinner, minus when James and I fight over the middle of the garlic bread. My mom plays referee and hacks away at it as evenly as possible to split but makes us both groan and laugh when she steals the best bite for herself.

My dad gets home only to immediately launch into a conversation with James about when it will be warm enough to go golfing together next.

Of course, like they always do when the topic of conversation is on this sport, my dad tells the story of how he took me to a driving range and I wound up hitting a ball backward, breaking the glass window on the vending machine.

Even though he’s heard the story one hundred times, James still thinks it’s hilarious.

I stab my plate with a fork, but I honestly don’t mind the laughter at my expense.

It’s nice to have this comfort of sharing memories, and James enjoys it just as much as I do.