Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “No, I mean, yes, dinner sounds great.”

  He took another step toward me, gently tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. The gesture felt surprisingly intimate, his touch making my skin tingle with—what was it—lust? Desire? As sudden images of the two of us, naked, galloped around my mind, I lost the grip on my phone, and it clattered to the floor. Lewis bent over and picked it up, held it out to me. Our fingers touched, lingered, making my heart beat faster and the number of naughty images quadruple.

  “Thank you.” I pulled my hand away, wrapped it around my phone.

  “Dinner then. How about tomorrow night?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Can I pick you up at seven?”

  “Yes, please,” I whispered. “I’ll see you then.”

  From the way Lewis looked at me, I thought he might kiss me, and I let myself imagine his lips pressed against mine, his hands slipping around my waist, pulling me closer. Instead, he smiled again and left, closing the door behind him without making a sound.

  My grin threatened to break my face but vanished when I looked at my phone. The LinkedIn message to Victoria was no longer a draft. It had been sent, hurtling through cyberspace, straight toward her inbox.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MOST OF THE NIGHT was spent attempting to calm my frayed nerves, which had shot off in all directions, disappearing down “what if” rabbit holes, robbing me of any potential sleep. By the time morning came, I was still trying to convince myself not to worry. Victoria wouldn’t answer. She wouldn’t. How many times had I emailed or contacted prospects through social media or left voice mails, only to hear nothing but crickets?

  Experience taught me there were always a few dozen rejections before I got to the elusive “yes,” it was the simple reality of sales. Sure, Victoria wasn’t a regular prospect as far as I was concerned, but she didn’t know. Like so many others, she’d probably see my message and hit Delete, and on the off chance she replied, I’d ignore her. Simple.

  I dragged my exhausted body to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. The yellow sheen of my bruises had faded at last, and I decided I’d ignore the deep purple bags under my eyes. I had something else to focus on. Dinner with Lewis.

  But the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was a bad idea. He’d said I was different, which was kind of lovely, but we didn’t have much—anything—in common, which would lead to us exchanging pleasantries about the weather and a joke or two about doing laundry in a spooky basement. An awkward silence would soon descend upon us, more than likely before our food arrived.

  As I turned on the shower, I considered texting him I was sick. Then again, the prospect of not spending another evening alone was tempting. And anyway, I’d have to face him somewhere in the building eventually. I couldn’t skulk around the hallway forever, trying my best to avoid him. Yes, I’d go for dinner, choose the lightest, easiest thing to eat from the menu, have a quick but pleasant chat, after which we’d go right back to being friendly but distant neighbors, and he’d move on to the next person to rescue.

  Except going out with Lewis presented another dilemma. Other than my usual outfit of jeans and a black T-shirt, what would I wear on a date? My dress pants would surely still be too snug around the middle—prompting scary visions of me splitting the seams after my first mouthful—and if I wore any of my work stuff, I’d look like I was on a job interview. No, there was no future with Lewis, that was a given, but it didn’t mean I wanted to appear as a total loser on my first date in almost two years. God, had it been that long since I’d kissed a guy?

  My last relationship had lasted only four months. I’d met Tony, a colleague who worked in the legal department, in the lunch room when he’d confused my tuna sandwich for his. Deadpan, he’d asked if I knew what happened to the tuna fisherman, and said, “He got canned.” Profuse apologies for the terrible pun followed, but he’d made me grin, so when he asked me out, I said yes. Things had gone quite well for a while, the sex transitioning from awkward to mostly enjoyable, but when Tony told me he loved me, I froze.

  “What’s wrong?” he’d said with sad puppy eyes. “Don’t you love me?”

  Maybe I should’ve said yes, but I didn’t want to lie. I’d been hurt before when I’d said it to previous boyfriends, heard it parroted back before finding out I’d been cheated on. And so I’d hesitated before telling Tony I wasn’t there yet, and I saw the hurt etch itself across his face. A week later we’d broken up. Another six months and HR collected donations for an engagement present for Tony and Laura, a girl from Sales. I’d chucked in twenty bucks because I hadn’t missed him once, which said an awful lot about me I didn’t want to know.

  But, as strange as it felt, I missed Lewis. As I’d lain in bed last night, trying not to think about the message I’d sent Victoria, I’d pictured him instead. The shape of his back. The definition of his arms. The sound of his voice. The way he’d looked at me. How it might feel if he were there, in my bed... While all those thoughts had been a helpful distraction, they’d stopped me from sleeping, too.

  My legs wobbled, and I shut off the shower, ordering myself to get a grip. I added up the cash in my bank account, deciding I could spend a few bucks on a new shirt at least, although my old jeans would have to suffice. Mind made up, I got ready and headed to the local thrift store, where I rummaged around long enough to find a “new” three-quarter-sleeved shirt that would cover what a gym teacher had once referred to as my “boilermaker” arms. The top was silky smooth dark gray satin, slightly tapered at the waist and had a plunging neckline embroidered with small white flowers.

  “Great find,” the store clerk said, looking up from the pile of sweaters she’d rearranged. “I think it would really suit you. You can try it on if you like.”

  I wrinkled my nose, still unsure, wondering if it was something Victoria might have worn a few fashion seasons ago. No doubt she was the kind of person who discarded her entire wardrobe twice yearly, always going with—and pulling off—the latest trends. Thinking about her riled me again, and I told the jealousy to climb back in its box, but it refused.

  “I’ll take it,” I told the clerk, paying seven bucks and going back outside. When I passed the drugstore, I doubled back, hesitating in front of the entrance. I’d never had a talent for makeup, limiting my efforts to a swipe of mascara, some blush, the occasional touch of a peach-colored lipstick I’d had for years. Victoria’s face always looked expertly done in her photos, even after her spin class the other night. In every single picture, she seemed flawless, also when barefaced. Like Amy, Victoria was the kind of person who didn’t need artificial help, but knew exactly which tools would enhance her impeccable features some more.

  I’d read somewhere that when the economy tanked, lipstick sales went up, something about it being perceived as a small yet affordable luxury. Well, I reasoned as I walked into the drugstore, my job prospects weren’t fantastic so that had to mean a new lip gloss was in order. I perused the different brands and colors, took my time trying out darker shades on the palm of my hand, incapable of figuring out what might suit. When a sales assistant with long auburn hair and choppy bangs walked over, she reached for a tube of shiny, pale pink lip gloss.

  “This is great if you’re going for a neutral look,” she said. “Here, see what you think.” She dabbed a little onto my hand, her fingers butter-soft as she rubbed the gloss into my skin. “See how it blends but leaves a little shimmer? Beautiful.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  She beamed. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Uh...no, thanks,” I said, but as she turned I added, “Wait, yes. My eyes. Any suggestions how to get rid of these bags before Samsonite comes looking for them?”

  She laughed. “Sure. And for the record, your eyes are a lovely shade of blue. Let’s see...”

  Thirty minutes later I clutched a little basket filled
with foundation, applicator sponges, concealer, eyeliner and eyeshadow, mascara and the shimmery lip gloss. Penelope, my new best friend, had showed me how to use everything, giving me a mini makeover right there in the store.

  “See,” she said, holding out a mirror when she was done. “You’re stunning.”

  I couldn’t see what she did, and knew flattery was part of her job, but I had to agree my reflection was a vast improvement. The dark bags had all but disappeared, my lips looked plumper and somehow Penelope had unearthed my cheekbones with the skill of a veteran archeologist. When she took me to the counter and rung up all the items—over sixty dollars’ worth of products—I balked.

  “Oops. I almost forgot the ten-percent discount for your birthday,” Penelope said.

  “But it isn’t—”

  “Sure it is.” She winked. “And I’ll include a load of samples, too, okay?”

  Treating myself felt unfamiliar, but even so, before I left the store, I ended up two aisles over in front of the boxes of hair dye. My eyes glanced over the hues, finally settled on a rich mahogany, the exact shade of Victoria’s hair. I reached out to pick up a box, but pulled my hand back before sticking my arm out again and grabbing it, knocking three others off the shelf in the process. Penelope had disappeared so I couldn’t ask her opinion, and the new clerk stood at the counter picking her fingernails, barely glancing at me as I paid for the dye. I didn’t care. I was too eager to get home and continue my transformation.

  An hour later I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the reflection of someone I no longer recognized, wishing I’d waited for Penelope after all. As much as I’d detested my yellow mop, I wanted it back.

  The promised color on the box had translated into a peculiar shade of mud brown on my head, and instead of subtle highlights, it looked like a kid had taken a Sharpie to sporadic strands. Despite the new makeup, my face appeared ghostly white, appropriate for an audition in a zombie movie, perhaps, but nothing else. Worse, there was little under an hour left before Lewis would pick me up, during which time I’d have to wash and rewash my hair to rid it of the color. After five rounds of good scrubbing, it had barely budged, and, if anything, looked more lackluster. I grabbed the box and read the instructions, desperate for some magical solution but finding only that I’d bought permanent dye, not a wash-out one.

  Cursing profusely, I blow-dried my hair, retouched my makeup so Lewis wouldn’t think I was one of the undead coming for his brains and practically leaped into my jeans and new shirt, which, I saw at the last minute, had a small hole under the right armpit. There was no time to change again, because, right on cue, the doorbell rang.

  “Hey,” Lewis said with a smile. “You changed your hair.”

  “Uh, yeah.” I ran a hand through it, pulling it back into a ponytail, wishing I could come down with an instant bout of flu. “It didn’t go as planned.”

  “I think you look great. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” I said automatically, realizing I hadn’t eaten all day. I was about to ask where he wanted to go, but my cell rang. I fished it from my bag, didn’t recognize the local number. “Sorry, Lewis, do you mind if...?”

  “Go right ahead,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll step out.”

  After he pulled the door closed behind him, I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is that Eleanor Hardwicke?”

  My entire body stiffened, my brain desperately trying to connect to my mouth because I knew exactly who was on the other end of the phone. “Yes, this is Eleanor.”

  “Great. I’m Victoria. Victoria Gallinger. You sent me a message about website designs?” As she waited for my response, I swear she must’ve heard the panic rising inside me. When I still couldn’t speak, she continued, “Is now a good time?”

  No. No, it absolutely isn’t, was what I should’ve said. I’d practiced the sentence, or a variation thereof, a hundred times already. Now, faced with the option of having an actual conversation with my half sister, the person I’d speculated and played movies in my head about, convinced myself I hated, was too good to pass up.

  “Uh, yes. Now’s great,” I said, my heart slowing as I told myself I was the one with all the knowledge, I was the one in control.

  “Fantastic,” Victoria said, her voice as friendly as a hug. “I love your designs, and your website’s gorgeous. Your timing’s impeccable, too.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. I’m in desperate need of a web designer.” She laughed, a sound that made me smile, despite trying not to. “Yikes, I should’ve kept quiet. You’ll double your prices now.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I said, flustered. Did she know I was broke? Had she figured out who I was? Seen footage from the restaurant? Worked out I was the thief?

  “I’m kidding.”

  My heart rate slowed again. Of course she didn’t know who I was or what I’d done. My photograph was on my website and LinkedIn. There was no way she’d be this friendly if she’d recognized me as the person who’d stolen her ring.

  “Uh, so you liked my work?” I said, now the one sounding desperate.

  “I really did. It’s slick and beautifully laid out. I love how you made sure each site is completely different, too, not a copy-paste job. I find that’s what some companies seem to do these days—roll out the same design except with different pictures.”

  “Each of my clients is unique. It’s important their sites reflect that.”

  “Exactly.” Her amplified smile practically beamed through the phone like a ray of sunshine. “Look, uh, this is a little delicate, not to mention confidential, but I’m not calling you about the website for the company I work for.”

  “Oh...?”

  “Yes... I’ve decided I might want to go it alone.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “What a huge step.”

  “Honestly, I’m terrified,” she whispered. “You have your own company, right? Please tell me the fear of failure goes away.”

  “Absolutely,” I lied. “Best decision I ever made.”

  “I’m hoping to be like you in the future,” she said with a sigh. “Running a successful business you built yourself must be incredibly rewarding. Maybe you can give me some tips?” She laughed again as I tried to digest the fact she’d said she wanted to be like me. Like me. “Anyway,” she continued, “I’m not there yet, it’s not even off the ground, so before I get ahead of myself, could we meet and talk about website options?”

  “You want to meet?” I said, trying to contain my gasp.

  “If it’s okay? Face-to-face is so much better, don’t you think? I’d love to have your input on the site. I’ve researched a few developers, but when I saw your stuff...”

  This was it. Time to tell her I’d signed a new contract with another client—ten new clients—and couldn’t possibly take on anything else. My brain compressed my throat, wrapping it with an invisible noose, trying to keep my next words in, but my heart won the battle raging inside. “I’d love to. When?”

  “How about yesterday,” she said with a laugh. “Or next week. Whenever you’re free?”

  I thought about my date with Lewis. As much as I’d wanted to spend the evening with him, what for? It would never go anywhere. “I’m free now,” I said, hardly believing I’d spoken the words out loud.

  “Really? I don’t want to spoil your plans if—”

  “No plans, it’s fine. But if you can’t—”

  “Actually... I could meet now, for a little while, anyway. If you’re sure?”

  My mind screamed, No, no, no, but my mouth said, “Where would work for you?”

  “You said you live in Portland?”

  “Sherman Street.”

  “No way! You’re really close to me. I’m on Newbury.”

  “Are you?” I said, my voice dangerously high.
“What a coincidence.”

  “There’s a new coffee shop on Congress and Temple called Jake’s Cakes. That’s kind of in the middle. We could meet in, say, half an hour. It shouldn’t be too busy on a Thursday night.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  “Perfect. I’ll find you, okay? I’m sure I’ll recognize you.”

  Once we hung up, I opened my front door. Lewis leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, his face breaking into a smile that almost had the power to change my mind.

  “Everything okay?” he said.

  “One of my clients is having a meltdown.”

  He nodded. “I’m guessing you need a rain check?”

  “Yes, I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You do what you need to do. My next couple of days are crazy but I’ll text or stop by and we can decide on another date. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I said. “That would be nice.”

  “Good night, Eleanor.” He leaned in, his soft lips a gentle whisper brushing against my cheek. “And I meant it,” he murmured, “you look beautiful.”

  A few days ago I would have died on the spot if he’d said those words. Now I couldn’t wait for him to leave. Because in thirty minutes, I was officially going to meet my sister.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  NO GOOD CAN COME of this.

  I repeated the sentence—my new mantra—over and over after Lewis left. This was a bad idea, a terrible idea. I walked the length of the living room, back and forth, back and forth. Sweat poured down my back, transforming my badly dyed hair into a frizzy mess, and I felt incapable of stringing together a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. I wanted to go to the kitchen and grab a fistful of cookies or chips or cake—preferably all three—but told myself to calm down, it would be okay, everything would be fine.

  If I was to go through with this “business” meeting, I had five minutes to change into one of my old office outfits. It wouldn’t be difficult to choose between the few pairs of pants and couple of jackets and shirts—they were all dark, drab colors I’d picked because they allowed me to blend in, gave me the ability to hide—but bland or not, all of the clothes fit ten pounds ago. When I’d last tried them, the pants had pinched my thighs and dug into my hips, and the shirts had pulled across my chest, leaving open gaps between the buttons.