Chipper walks into the living room, picks up Redondo from the spot next to me on the couch, and rests the dog on the floor. Once he sits in the vacated spot, he sets his feet on the table. I glance back toward the kitchen, wondering if the food he claims to be cooking is finished.

“I’m hungry,” I hint.

“I had trouble making something that wouldn’t make your ass huge.”

“Too late. My badonkadonk is the size of a normal person’s house. I can’t even imagine what it’ll be by the time I deliver.”

“Are you planning to manually push the babies from your hoochie mama or will you get shivved to have them removed?” he asks with his head back and eyes closed.

“I probably get more drugs with the shiv option. I’m really looking forward to being out of my mind on the good stuff.”

“Can I come into the operating room and watch them cut you open?”

“Sure, but I don’t think you can bring popcorn.”

“Nothing’s perfect.”

Smiling, I snuggle closer. “Do you miss Chevelle?”

“Sometimes, I miss the fantasy I had about me and Chevelle, but I don’t miss actually being together.”

“You know I love Chevelle, but I never thought you were right together.”

“Why is that?” he asks, turning his head to look at me with partially open eyes.

“Don’t get your thong in a bunch.”

“I’m only curious. No drama from me. I’ll just stick a few more pins in my Cricket voodoo doll. So why didn’t you think we’d be good together?”

“She’s too normal. You know, sweet, low-key, mature. Those qualities are all wrong for you. What you need is a basket case with a nice rack.”

“How do you figure?”

“I don’t think I’m telling you something you don’t already know when I state you’re a weirdo.”

“If I’m weird, why would I want a weird woman?”

“No, not weird. You need a fucking mentally unwell hottie. Someone who can’t fully function in the world without special treatment. You would so fucking excel with a train wreck like that.”

“I don’t know. I already have you to deal with and Bianca Bella and Mom. Seems like I have enough high-maintenance women in my life.”

“Wrong. See, you’re like Poet. You’re a high-functioning weirdo who grew up around high-maintenance psycho women. You need someone who can fit into that level of wacko.”

“Wrong.”

Tossing a pillow at his head, I mutter, “No rebuttal? Just ‘wrong’ as if that’ll win the argument.”

“We’re having an argument? I thought we were just shooting the shit until your man calls or you get the urge for a nap.”

“No, we’re arguing. Now join in and have fun with me,” I say and tug playfully at his arm.

“Fine, then you’re an idiot who drove her man away and now only talks to him on the phone. Why in the fuck should I listen to anything that comes out of your fucking mouth?”

“Well, I’m a woman in love, and he visits me every weekend.”

“He spends more time away from you than with you.”

“Most dating people spend more time apart than they do together.”

“Did you read that online? I only ask because you say a lot of dumb stuff based on internet lies.”

“Hey, we were attacking your bad love choices. Not mine. Stick to the topic, toilet stank.”

“Well, you’re fucking wrong. My dream is to find a nice girl.”

“Yeah, a nice girl would do just super in this family. She can knit and talk about rules while we kill people for getting too close to Candy’s ass.”

“It wasn’t that he was too close,” Chipper growls. “He was reaching for it.”

“Mock squeezing it, not actually reaching for it.”

Chipper rolls his eyes, once again remaining way too concerned over the safety of our mother’s ass. “Point is we kill people for good reasons. My boring wife will understand.”

“You’re Michael Corleone, and she’s that chick who got the door shut in her face in ‘The Godfather.’ Not a happy ending there. I mean, I assume it didn’t end happily. I fell asleep halfway through the second movie.”

Closing his eyes again, he mumbles, “I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.”

“Remember that blonde chick from the country club that was always flirting with you?”

“Which one?”

“Ugh, I don’t remember her name. Let’s just call her ‘Roadwhore.’ So, she was always flirting with you because you’re hot and rich and she hadn’t paid for those fake tits to snare a poor ugly guy. Remember how Roadwhore creamed her panties whenever you came into the club. It was gross. Then do you remember what happened?”

“I don’t even know who we’re talking about.”

“Stay with me, Chip. You had Roadwhore in a thigh-quivering frenzy until she saw us playing Marco Polo during our tennis match. That’s when she realized you were a weirdo. That gold-digging fake-boobed bitch walked away and never looked back. That is your future with a boring Corleone hag. Don’t you see? You need an unstable diva. Preferably with real tits because I’m slightly horrified by the fake ones. They don’t move like real ones, you know?”

“Yeah, I noticed. There was a walking stick of sex at the country club who had fake boobs. She and I played a game of tennis once, and I nearly puked at how static her tits were.”

“That’s Roadwhore!” I cry, startling Redondo nearby. “She was so gross for a really attractive woman.”

“I’m still unsure what we’re talking about.”

“Your pathetic love life.”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t care. I’m really great at masturbating. Like my hand is fucking unbelievably talented,” he says, lifting his right hand as if to show off its power. “I don’t need to chase pussy when I have something so damn sweet waiting for me at home.”

Laughing at his smug expression, I pat Chipper’s head as if he were a dog. “I’m proud of you for loving yourself so fabulously. Too many men manhandle their poor weenies.”

“Men’s violent dick love makes me ashamed to have a dick of my own.”

“I feel your pain, Chip,” I mumble and then add, “I wonder how often Poet loves himself.”

“He seems too relaxed not to do it at least twice a day.”

“I’ll ask him next time we talk,” I say, rubbing my swollen stomach where feet currently try to kick their way free.

“Why do you like him? I mean, really. And don’t say because you have babies roasting in your lady oven.”

“He never reacts like a douche,” I explain. “When I’m wild or crazy or lame, he just rolls with it. That coolness comes from growing up around insane women and a motorcycle club. I don’t have to pretend our family business is legit or that Hayes is a normal man with normal temper levels.”

“So, all you need from a man is acceptance?”

“Did Chevelle accept you?”

“Yes.”

“Not really. She wanted you to be more.”

“More what?” he asks while trying to balance a bowl of peanuts on my belly.

“Sane or normal. I’m not sure really. We never talked about you.”

“Never?”

“Of course not. Like she could really tell me how you’re bad in bed or fart a lot after fucking. I mean, shit, I’d never recover from hearing that. Plus, I’d grow to hate her for trash-talking my twin. Yeah, I’d want revenge. Nasty, bloody revenge too. Chevelle was too good a friend to want to harm that way, so we just didn’t talk about you.”

Chipper kisses the top of my head and then sniffs my hair like I smell weird. “Change your shampoo.”

“Maybe.”

Standing up, he walks to the kitchen to check whatever he’s cooking. “I like Poet. He always seems very chill. At the casino, he didn’t want the expensive booze. He even claimed his stepgrandfather made better moonshine. Now I want to drive to West Virginia and try it.”

“You’re all about the booze.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I want to drive to Tumbling Rock to meet Poet’s family. You can come with me, and we’ll try the moonshine.”

“You can’t drink when you’re baking babies,” Chipper says upon returning to the living room.

“A sip won’t matter. Booze hurts when it’s constant. Besides, it’s moonshine. Who’s gonna want more than a sip?”

“Poet said it’s high-quality shit.”

“You sound like Bianca Bella when she talks about her cousin’s weed.”

Chipper again walks to the kitchen. I watch him turn off the heat on the stove and fill two bowls with something that smells like dirty feet. I sit cross-legged and pretend to be excited to eat the gourmet turds he cooked for us.

“It’s hot so don’t eat like a pig and shove your face into the bowl,” he says, handing me my dinner.

“I’ll try not to, but you know how much I love dirty feet food.”

“It’s goulash with veggies for your stupid babies, you dumb roadwhore.”

Laughing at his fake anger, I sniff the food. “Thank you for feeding me, you anal prolapse.”

Chipper gives me an odd look that sends me into hysterics. I have to set down the bowl to keep from spilling since I’m laughing so hard. Every time I think my laughter is under control, I glance at Chipper, see his frowning face, and burst into another round of giggles. I swear he has to do nearly nothing to make me lose my shit. Only a guy like Poet can understand a relationship like the one I have with Chipper. A Corleone wench would think I’m too close to my brother and that we laugh about stupid stuff.

This is why we totally need a special kind of person to love us.