Way worse.

The episodes are growing more and more frequent, and their severity is only intensifying. We’ve tried damn near every drug on the market, even the ones not covered by insurance, and nothing is working. I know there has to be something out there that can help him.

Something.

Somewhere.

And I’m going to do whatever is necessary to find it.

Sunday family dinners are my absolute favorite. No matter if it’s a warm, breezy summer day, or if we’re smack-dab in the middle of a no-holds-barred winter blizzard, ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always looked forward to them. It’s like Christmas morning, but every week.

Throughout the week, I count the days until we’re all settled around the massive, hand-carved oak tables nestled in the equally vast dining room that is the heart of our lodge, Fire on the Mountain, enjoying a never-ending feast of mouth-watering foods, homemade by my mom and my grandmother.

And by all of us, I mean all of us.

My sickeningly-in-love parents, Melissa and Doug, who are often asked if they’re the famous duo that makes kids’ toys, but they’re not. They just make kids…lots of them. Juno, Denali (Nali), Dakota (Kota), Cheyenne, and Brighton—my sisters, who also happen to be my five closest friends. My incredibly adorable, yet often annoying little brother, Denver. And Grams, the coolest grandmother on the face of the earth.

Then there are all of the guests staying at our family-owned-and-operated mountainside resort, and basically, anyone else who wants to join us. Our door is always open to any smiling face.

The most we’ve ever had at one of our Sunday shindigs was this past Fourth of July, when seventy-eight bodies filled the warm, inviting space. It was a cozy fit to say the least, and though I’m pretty sure we were breaking some kind of fire code, no one said anything, considering the mayor of Breckenridge himself sat at the head of one of the tables, with his entire family spread amongst the rest of us.

After our bellies were stuffed, everyone emptied out of the main house onto the sprawling acreage my parents purchased nearly a decade ago, and we all watched the spectacular firework display illuminating the clear Rocky Mountain night sky. While the kids were distracted by the shimmery snap, crackle, and pop overhead, the adults—sans the mayor and his family—sparked up their own form of recently-legalized fun. Not that my parents ever cared about whether or not it was legal.

But, I digress as I often do. Back to the topic of our Sunday dinners.

Today, instead of my usual enthusiasm for our weekly celebration, I’m dreading it like never before. If I knew how to fake an illness and make it believable, I would totally do that, but unfortunately, seeing how this entire situation is of my own doing, it’s not an option.

So as I stand in the bathroom I share with my two younger sisters, wrapped only in a fluffy white terrycloth towel, I clear a circle in the steam-fogged mirror with the heel of my hand, revealing my squeaky-clean reflection, and stare at my expressionless face. God, why did I agree to this?

“You can do this, Hudson.” I begin my private pep-talk with a deep breath. “Just act normal and pretend it’s like any other Sunday. It’s only your first date ever. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well, Grams could show him her dentures, Denver could challenge him to a farting contest, Kota could flirt shamelessly with him, Mel could break out the naked baby pictures, and Doug could sing karaoke,” Brighton—who recently turned thirteen and now knows everything—proclaims as she abruptly appears in the doorway and saunters up to the sink next to me, grinning the mischievous grin that almost never leaves her face. “Or you could throw up on him if tries to kiss you. Yeah,” she finger-taps her chin before snagging her toothbrush from the ceramic holder, “that would probably be the worst thing.”

Curling my nose up with disgust at her last suggestion, I release a girlie ‘Ewwww,’ but I can’t help but chuckle at the other possibilities she’s laid out, mostly because all of them have happened at one point or another when one of our sisters brought a guy home for dinner. Well, all of them but the vomiting thing…at least, not that I know of.

You’d think by daughter number four, my parents and the rest of the family would be used to this sort of thing, especially since I waited much longer than the others before me to enter the dating world. But based on the teasing all week from everyone, as well as the box of condoms my parents left on my bed with a note that read, ‘We’re so proud of you for blossoming into a beautiful young woman. Love, Doug and Mel,’ apparently not.

“I’m not sure who I’m more nervous for…me or Beckham. The poor guy really has no idea what he’s about to face.” I sigh, stepping into a pair of lavender bikini panties then hooking the clasps of the matching bra in the front before twisting it around the right way.

After Brighton finishes brushing her teeth, she strips out of her sweatpants and hoodie and walks into the frosted glass shower, nodding her agreement. “Beckham? That’s a cool name. Is he named after the hot soccer player dude?”

Though our family is far from being active nudists, we definitely aren’t shy around each other either. Growing up with a family the size of ours, especially when our houses before this one were much smaller in size, modesty was a luxury we simply weren’t afforded. Although, even if we had lived here at the lodge all of our lives, our parents would’ve always promoted and encouraged us to be confident in our skin, whether dressed or not.

“I don’t know. I try not to ask people where their names come from, because that usually leads to an hour-long discussion about our parents’ sex life, which is a visual I’m still not comfortable with. Thank you very much,” I retort. “Plus, weird names are cool now. Right?”

“It’s just sex, Hudson. A natural thing. Don’t be such a prude.” She peeks her head out of the stall and scowls at me. “That’s why everyone’s giving you a hard time anyway. You’re almost nineteen. When Mel and Doug were nineteen, they already had Juno and were expecting Nali.”

Unplugging the blow dryer from the wall, I realize I need to finish getting ready in my room, because the steam is beginning to build again and I don’t want to be a sweaty mess before I even get dressed. However, before I leave, I march over to where my little sister is still hanging out of the shower, dripping water all over the bathroom floor, and pierce her with my best authoritative stare.

“It’s not just sex, Brighton Moon Shavell, and I hope to God you’re not having it yet. You’re way too young to even begin to possess the maturity you need to be in a sexual relationship, nor do you need to end up pregnant or worse. Our parents are an anomaly; that’s not how things usually work out.”

She rolls her eyes, the same shade of blue all seven of us kids share with Doug, and dips her head back behind the frosted glass wall. “Thanks for the lecture, Mom.”

“Well, somebody’s gotta be one around here sometimes,” I mumble under my breath as I shut the door behind me.

An hour later, I’ve finally wrangled the nervous horses stampeding trails of unease through my stomach into a slow trot, and I make my way over from our separate family home to the main house at the lodge. I stick my head in the kitchen and holler out a quick hello to my mom and Grams before joining Cheyenne and Brighton in setting the tables.