10
1026 Words
She stares in disbelief at my single carry-on, a beat-up duffle I bought before I went away to college years ago. “You brought one bag?”
“You say that like I just informed you it’s filled with body parts.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, she insists, “How can you travel with one piece of luggage? Where’s your shoe bag? Your cosmetics bag? Your formal wear bag? All your clothes?”
She gazes around the room as if expecting a set of monogrammed Louis Vuitton steamer trunks to appear from thin air, bursting with mink stoles and evening gowns.
Smiling, I say, “It’s really gonna break your brain when I tell you my laptop’s in there, too.”
Spider catches my eye and winks. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.
Sloane jumps up, crosses to the bag, bends over, rips the zipper open, and stares down at the contents. She rifles around in it for a moment, then straightens and looks at me.
“What’s with all the boxes of candy?”
“I don’t travel anywhere without Twizzlers. And you can’t get those watermelon Sour Patch Kids everywhere, so because I didn’t know where I was going…” I shrug. “Better safe than sorry.”
She closes her eyes, draws a breath, gathers herself, then looks at me again.
“Do you have any other items of clothing that aren’t gray or made of fleece?”
“Yeah. Duh. My undies.”
“My god. I can’t believe we’re related.”
She’s so horrified, she’s about to make the sign of the cross over her chest. Or maybe call for a priest and douse me with a vial of holy water. It makes me laugh.
“Oh, relax, Beyoncé. There’s other stuff under the candy.”
When she looks hopefully at the duffel, I say, “I also brought white T-shirts and jean shorts.”
Her expression indicates she might be tasting the regurgitated remains of her lunch. “I can see we’ll need to do some shopping while you’re here, too.”
“Too?”
“In addition to taming that feral skunk on top of your head.”
“Excuse me, but not everyone thinks it’s necessary to look like a fashion model.”
“There has to be a happy medium between fashion model and hobo.”
“If you mean people who don’t have homes, Cruella, the correct term is unhoused. Hobo is super derogatory.”
“You’ve been living in San Francisco too long.”
“Can we table this discussion that’s sure to devolve into a political shouting match for a sec so I can ask when we’re going to eat? The last thing I had was a gross clot of slimy black fish eggs with some coagulated dairy product on a piece of bread the size of a quarter. I’m absolutely famished. You rich people eat like birds.”
She pauses for a beat, then covers her face with her hands and dissolves into laughter.
I say drily, “I’m glad my starvation is amusing you.”
“It’s just that I forgot how funny you are.”
“Funny as in ha-ha, or funny as in weird?”
“Ha-ha.” She thinks for a moment. “And also weird.”
“Thanks for that. Changing gears again: what does Declan do for a living? And don’t lie to me. I’m not one of your bedazzled f**k boys. I know when you’re not telling the truth.”
Her smile fades. She walks slowly to the chair she had her feet propped up on, sits, and folds her hands demurely between her thighs. “I want to tell you, but I don’t want you to judge.”
My laugh is short and disbelieving. “Judge? Dude, I went on a date last week with a person who has a p***s and a v****a. And showed them both to me during dinner. I’m not the judgmental type.”
Sloane looks fascinated. “Really?”
“Yes. Like you said, I’ve been living in San Francisco for quite some time. There’s literally nothing that can shock me anymore.”
“Okay. Well, if you must know…” Hesitating, she takes a deep breath. “He’s in the Mob. Actually, he is the Mob. He’s, like, the main guy.”
Several things click inside my head, and I nod thoughtfully. “Hmm. Makes sense. So about the eating situation again. Are we doing that before or after I let you do something awful to my hair that I’m sure to regret?”
When she only sits there staring at me, her eyes welling with tears, I get panicky.
“Oh, s**t. What’s wrong? Please tell me he’s not cheating on you. I’m not sure whose side I’d take.”
She leaps from the chair and launches herself across the room, slamming into me and flinging her arms around my neck.
I’m almost thrown back onto the mattress. Despite my total shock and the force of her embrace, I manage to stay upright. Then she bursts into tears, leaving me at a complete loss.
I say tentatively, “Um. What’s happening now?”
She wails, “I’m sorry is what’s happening! I’ve been a terrible sister, and you’re being so nice, and I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since your birthday a few years ago!”
Three years ago, to be precise.
Not that I’ll ever be able to forget it.
My boyfriend at the time took one look at Sloane and pronounced he was dating the wrong sister. He broke up with me on the spot.
In the middle of my friggin’ birthday party.
When I heard through a friend a few weeks later that they’d been seen together and called her to find out if it was true, she scoffed and said, “Who? Oh my god, that loser’s already in the rearview mirror.”
That “loser” she could barely remember had been my boyfriend for more than a year. He took my virginity. I thought we were madly in love.
- Writer
