‘That Mom had the nerve to name meMillicent, and you got to be named Anderson,’ she huffs. I almost cry with relief.
‘Shut up,’ I respond, laughing. ‘That is theonlygood thing from Mom that I got. You got her ass.’ I twist my neck to glance at my behind, which is stubbornly small in comparison to my thighs, no matter the amount of glute bridges I force myself to do at the tiny gym in my apartment building.
‘And you got her hair.’ I press my hands to my scalp to try to tame the frizz. Millie and I both have curly brown hair, but she manages to keep hers sleek, and mine is an unruly, untameable ball.
I joke about it, but sometimes I think Millie’s inheritance of our mother’s best traits — her dark curly hair and strong nose — were the first indicators of my sister’s first-born personality. She unapologetically takes what she wants.
‘Don’t say what you always say,’ I warn Millie, as she opens her mouth to speak, her full lips forming an O shape.
‘But everyone says we look like twins!’ both of us repeat together, although I’m using a mocking tone and Millie is deadly serious. I’ve never told Millie, although I suspect she knows, that being told I look like her is the nicest compliment I get. I could do a lot worse than being a softer version of her, a version with frizzier hair, thicker thighs, less-defined cheekbones and lighter-coloured eyes.
We have this back-and-forth all the time, and only once it’s over do I realise that this week, it could have gone much differently. I feel a crushing wave of guilt that I just complained about my hair when Millie discovered a lump in her breast last Thursday. The lump, which Millie, true to form, nicknamed Sal, is the reason I suggested we cancel tonight, but here she is, inhaling a glass of Pinot Noir, insisting there’s nothing to worry about.
Millie waves her hand at me, mimicking pressing a button on a remote, impatient for us to continue watching the show.
I press play. The bachelor is laying out a blanket for a beach picnic, and a contestant is popping champagne. She’s either blissfully happy about being on a date with the bachelor or someone slipped her mushrooms – I can’t tell which. Either way, I feel a twinge of jealousy that there are people out there experiencing that much emotion. Even during my last relationship, sometimes it felt like my dog, Murphy, was the only thing that could pull my heartstrings. Well, except Millie’s breast lump, Sal, which has shredded my heartstrings into oblivion.
After a few minutes Millie’s phone dings again.
‘OMG.’ She sits straight up. ‘Hugh already commented back.’
‘Isn’t he in Australia?’ I ask, thinking back to what Millie has told me about Hugh Harris. Millie says his accent gives him an ‘unfair and unearned’ advantage when they both go up for lecturing opportunities on the same circuit.
‘It’s morning for them,’ she informs me, furrowing her brow at her phone. ‘Look!’
@MilliePaxtonContrary to your belief, Ilearntnot to ‘create statistics’ while at university. If you read closely, you would see that I said ‘almost’. Your logic needs work. And, just so you’re aware, ITLOS plans to certify that the butterfly wrasse is extinct in 2026. Good luck finding one before then. Especially considering, as one savvy commenter pointed out, you live in Ohio.
‘He did not,’ I gasp. Murphy barks at my tone. ‘He criticised my grammar again! Learnt?! That isn’t a thing!’ I’m infuriated.
‘Technically,’ Millie reminds me, ‘he thinks he’s criticising me. And he’s gonna wish he never opened his mouth when I find that fish.’
For months now, Millie has been planning a trip to the Great Barrier Reef over her Christmas break. I tune out her rant about the boat she’s booked – it’s small and nimble, stopping at the reefs that had the highest rate of butterfly wrasse sightings in 2018.
Instead, I click on Hugh’s Twitter handle to pull up his profile. His picture is fuzzy – a crop of shaggy blond hair, glasses, and a strong jaw is all I can make out.
‘Is he cute?’ I ask Millie. I’m irked at Hugh’s condescending and haughty tone, but I’m also curious . . . I can’t remember the last time I saw someone get under Millie’s skin.
‘Finally back on the prowl?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows.
‘As if,’ I reply, doing my best to give her a withering glare. I broke up with Zach three months ago, effectively imploding my entire life, and for the past two weeks, Millie hasn’t stopped hounding me to see if she can set me up with her new co-worker. She claims two months is ‘standard break-up mourning period’. And even though I’ve tried to explain to her that turning down a proposal is a lot different than a normal breakup and that I don’t want another version of the guy I just broke up with — born and raised in Columbus, obsessed with football, hates trying new restaurants, timidly nice — she won’t take no for an answer.
Millie snorts. ‘Whatever you say. Technically, I haven’t seen him in person, just online. But if you’re into pompous jerks, then I guess he is.’
I give her a sideways glance. ‘Well, shouldn’t we respond?’ I reach for her phone, ready to defend my honour as a self-proclaimed grammar snob, but it’s wedged firmly between her thigh and the armrest of the couch.
‘We don’t need to,’ she says. ‘Now do you see why this trip is so important to me? Spotting the butterfly wrasse will be the best comeback there is.’ She folds her arms defiantly and leans back into the couch. ‘Fourteen days until he’s proven wrong.’
When I turn the TV off, Millie stretches out her arms and nudges Murphy’s head off her lap. She winces as she stands, a reminder of the procedure she had done last week. The doctors are sending in her sample to determine if the lump in her breast is benign and the results won’t be back for three more days. The wait seems excruciatingly long to me, but Millie took it in her stride.
‘Andi?’ Millie asks, turning to face me. ‘I want to ask you something . . .’ She wrings her hands and immediately, I’m consumed by nerves. Millie is never hesitant, and I don’t like seeing her this way.
‘What’s up?’ I as k, as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Well . . .’ Millie pauses and starts petting Murphy’s head. ‘Well, you know my trip?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I nod, like Millie’s given me the chance to forget it. We were talking about it no less than ten minutes ago.
‘I was just thinking that if I can’t go . . .’ She trails off and looks at me, her eyes pleading.
