“Is this the part where I ask you how you managed to talk a bank into giving a twenty-two-year-old with no credit history a loan, and you give me a speech about not patronizing you because you’re an adult?”
“Yes.” It’s automatic, the way we fall into the choreography we’ve danced to our whole lives. “And then you tell me you didn’t raise me to be reckless, and I say I’m not, and we both know we’re telling half-truths.”
Her smile is small but genuine. “You’re a good girl,” she says. “You always have been. That’s not an insult.”
“I know.”
Good girl.
The memory of Damien’s voice saying those same words echoes in my head, heat flaring low in my belly that I want to erase but can’t.
Clara reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze.
“I hate this,” she says simply. “The money. The decisions. The surgery. The way my body makes your life harder.”
“Your life is my life,” I respond automatically. It’s true.
“That’s very poetic.” She lifts a brow and smirks. “And maybe a little codependent.”
I laugh because she’s not entirely wrong. “I’m getting the loan,” I say, the lie now standing up and straightening its dress. “We’ll have the rest of the money in time.”
She closes her eyes for a beat. When she opens them again, there’s hope within.
“You’re sure you can do this?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I will make it happen, no matter what.”
“Cassie, promise me you’re not doing anything you can’t undo.”
“I promise,” I say. “I’m not marrying a creepy old rich guy, and I’m not robbing a bank.”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” she murmurs before sighing, long and low. “Alright. Then go ahead.”
“I will make it happen.” I squeeze her hand. “I swear.”
“You always do,” she says. “It’s why I both adore you and want to wrap you in bubble wrap and drop you at a convent.”
I smile, then lay my head lightly against her shoulder, breathing her in. “We’ll make it through this,” I whisper.
She rests her cheek on my hair. “If this goes badly, you know I plan to haunt you, right? Politely, of course.”
“You don’t know how to be polite. You’ll be rearranging my furniture at three a.m.”
“And I’ll organize your mess of a closet.”
We sit like that until the nurse comes in to take her vitals. Clara seems relaxed, and for that I’m grateful. I, however, am still a hot mess, though I don’t tell her.
I stop on my way out and look at her again over my shoulder. We are two women who started as sisters, but became a thousand other things—surrogate mother, best friends, professional worriers, living room dance partners, emergency contacts, and the list goes on.
“Text me when you get home,” Clara says.
“I’m taking the train. It’ll be faster than an Uber when everyone’s trying to out-holiday each other.”
“Don’t forget your scarf.”
I flap it at her. “Don’t worry, it’s tucked in the sleeve like you taught me.”
“Drink something that isn’t coffee.”
