“Who?”
“Who? My brother, the damn owl.Who? You know who.”
Maggie is my younger sister, but she has a complete lack of classic younger sister energy. My brother, the eldest, is all self-control and responsibility. I’m the middle child, invisible, best neither seen nor heard.
Then there’s Maggie. She should’ve been our devil-may-care, wild child, but instead, she became the family’s emotional core. Trapped in an otherwise emotionally stunted family, she’s our bleeding heart—the one who cares, perhaps too much, about everyone at all times. After carrying two children, now she’s become even more of a surrogate mom to the rest of us.
It must be exhausting, but she carries the load well.
She stares at me now, waiting on a response, her sharp blue eyes mirroring my own.
I clear my throat. “She’s a friend.”
“A friend or afriend?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I press my lips together. “Did you come here to interrogate me?”
“Yes, actually.” She begins to pick at the olives between us—Dove made a dent in them, but the bowl seems never ending. “I’m leaving to go to our parents’ house tonight. They’re having us over for Christmas. Are you coming?”
“Now why would I do that when no one wants me there?”
“Iwant you there,” she says pointedly. “Your nieces want you there.”
I try to ignore that gnawing shame clawing at my throat. “Maybe next year.”
I have a gift back tucked in beside my legs. I lift it and move it over to Maggie’s side of the table. “This is for the girls,” I tell her. “Don’t let them play with it inside of the house.”
But Maggie won’t let up. “Maybe next year.That’s what you saidlastyear. You and Mark need to bury the hatcheteventually.”
“Tell him that.”
“Dori.” She reaches across the table. She takes my hand. Her thumb is soft over the back of my hand. “You can’t keep punishing yourself for this.”
I pull away from her gentle touch. I fix myself an olive instead and pop it in my mouth. “Besides. I couldn’t come even if I wanted to. I’ve got plans.”
“With who?”
I cock my head. “Now who’s the owl?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “The woman? The woman who was just here? You’re making that up. I don’t believe you. What’s her name?”
“Dove.”
“Fake. This is all fake.”
“I’ll send you a postcard.”
But I’ve forgotten:Maggie is not Dove. When I show Dove my teeth, she bites back. When I speak to Maggie with the same caustic tone, she bursts into tears. My bitter sense of humor just soundsbitterto her, and her bottom lip swells and starts to tremble. “You’re a dick,” she says. “An absolute dick. You know that? If I have to spend another Christmas knowing you’re alone…holing up like a goddamn turtle in your goddamnDorian-shell, I’m going to lose it…I’m really going to lose it…”
Well, nowIfeel like shit.
Reminder: my sister is sniffling across the table because she feelsbadfor me, sorryfor me; meanwhile, I’ve got a chip on my shoulder and a cum stain drying on my thigh.
I need to be put down.
I relent. This time, I’m the one who reaches across and takes her hand. I give it a gentle squeeze. “I won’t be alone. I promise.”
I have a long, long list of crimes. But one thing I’ve never done: broken a promise to my sister.
