53
Sitting across from Chloe in this crowded suburban eatery, I try to read the expression in my sister’s impenetrable azure eyes.
Is it pity? Hurt? Contempt? Revulsion?
It’s not love. I know love when I see it.
Chloe didn’t want to meet me. Mom talked her into it. So, here we are on the first Saturday in April—meeting early because, as my sister informed me on the phone, “I have other things to do with my day.”
My failures stack up between us like dominoes. Not that I’ve ever built anything between us. I’ve only ever knocked things down.
A year and a half ago, at our cousin Sophie’s bachelorette party, when I was thirty-one and Chloe was twenty-seven, she came into a nightclub bathroom a few minutes after I did and found me snorting a line of cocaine off the back of a public toilet
