On the second read, overthinking mode kicked in. I knew I’d see Tobin and McHuge, and there they were, in the first slot. Next was David Headley. In the bottom position, me. Not alphabetical, not chronological—why were our names in this order?
I think this means I’m on the bubble. In the next few weeks, I have to pour it on even harder. And I have to do it without Tobin, because now he’s the competition.
Amber heaves another long-suffering sisterly exhalation. “It’s not too late to change your mind about improv. Or the work thing. You’re pushing yourself too hard. Like, burnout hard. Not to mention you could save the family forty bucks for the babysitter.”
Thirty is a cursed age. It feels like everyone younger than me has discovered the cure for cancer and everyone who’s older can’t resist bossing me around. Case in point: Amber invoking The Family when I’m in the passenger seat of my own car, because she’s driving it to work while the minivan’s in for repairs.
A wrenching twist of younger-sibling frustration wrings pure unfairness all over me. HowdareI have a life beyond the duties she’s scheduled me for? “Taking a cab to work would’ve cost you forty bucks, too. How about we call it even.”
Whoa. Which inner character didthatcome from?
Amber’s mouth puckers. “You could call it a favor, since you’re living in my house. With your gross old cat.”
She didnotjust insult Yeti. Granted, he smells like day-old soft food and bumps into a lot of walls, but he’s a good cat. Anyone can see he and Eleanor are in love.
“Yes, and I’m splitting the billsandthe school runsandthe dog walks. And I’ve babysat Eleanor for free for three years. And actually, it’s Mom and Dad’s house.”
I wait for Amber’s comeback, but she only stares, mouth opening and closing. Conflict might not make good improv, but “yes, and” sure packs a punch during a fight.
Having never won an argument with her, I don’t know what to do now. My first instinct is to back down. Edit myself for The Family. Forgiveness above all.
“I don’t want to fight, Amber. I want you to support me, like I’vesupported you since your divorce.” How much more gently can I hint that she can’t treat me like a kid while asking me to contribute like a grown-up?
“Those aren’t the same thing. Besides, Eleanor doesn’t need some teenager. She needs someone who understands her.”
Amber’s eyebrows do a wiggling sort of lift. She does this when there’s some connection she wants me to make without being told. She loved to play “if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you” when we were kids, the stuff designed to drive a little sib to tears. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t learn to stop playing until after my wedding.
“Amber, is there something you want to say?”
“It’s really not my place. You need to figure this out on your own.”
There it is: the thin edge of the wedge she insists on driving between us so we can never quite be close. Amber and I would’ve been so much better off if our parents had let us find our own relationship with each other. Them smashing us together drove Amber wild when we were younger; now that we’re grown, I’m getting a taste of her aggravation during our summer treks, stuck in a tent a hundred kilometers from nowhere, every choice imposed on her from what she ate to who shared her sleeping space (me).
I’m convinced she took up distance running as an excuse to leave the family behind and make her own path for an hour a day. She was born to run, with her willowy frame and effortless gait that made her seem to float like dandelion fluff. I was the better skier—lower center of gravity, with a natural talent at sensing the fall line—but I always waited for her to catch up. Whenever she ran, whether it was a backcountry trail or a move to a whole different country, she did it to put distance between us.
Maybe distance is what we need right now.
I grab my bag as I open the door. “Have a good shift. Plug the car in if you want to use the heater on the way home.”
I want to catch McHuge alone, to make sure he’s okay with me as a student now that we’re both in the pitch competition. I’d prefer him to Naheed—god, this town is too small—but if he’d rather I transfer, I’ll see what I can do.
And sooner or later, I’ll have to deal with Tobin, too.
As if I summoned him with that thought, I’m confronted with Tobin’s uncompromising profile the moment I turn into the shadowy cloakroom. He’s sitting with McHuge at a table spread with papers and devices.
It’s wrong to linger, but once I start eaveslooking I can’t stop. The ordinary intimacy Tobin and I used to have was one of my favorite things about us. I loved watching him turn a page, as he does now, penciling a quick note. Sometimes I’d imagine us older, streaks of snow in his sunny hair, him a little sensitive about his reading glasses no matter how many times I told him he was a silver fox.
When was the last time we lounged on the couch, foot to foot, tossing a bag of chips back and forth as we read for pleasure? I’m shocked to realize it’s been years. He was on a trip, or I was working, or our families needed us. Our life together broke under the flood of demands from everyone around us.
McHuge leans back, swiping a hand through the air like he’s making love to a rainbow. Tobin picks up a spreadsheet—I can spot printed boxes through paper anywhere, anytime—and taps it with his pencil. McHuge, the ideas person; Tobin, the business-minded one. There was a time I imagined sitting where McHuge is now, and I can’t say it’s not painful to see someone else in that seat.
McHuge leans over and crosses out something Tobin’s written. Quick as a hummingbird, Tobin goes for McHuge’s strikeoutwith his eraser. He’s outclassed, as practically all humans are against McHuge, but they’re laughing and tussling like brothers, books hitting the linoleum left and right. Tobin leans down to pick one up, making as if to launch it at McHuge’s head, when he spots me and freezes.
His unforced, unfiltered laughter cuts off like I’m a humanPausebutton. I feel the absence of its brightness all over my skin.
“Sorry. I just got here.” When, oh when, will we cover how to lie in this class? “I’m super early.Soearly. I’ll go hang in the lobby.”
“No, I’ll go.” Tobin sweeps papers into his weather-beaten backpack, exchanging some last murmurs with McHuge, who tactfully wanders away.
