Jane pulled up her phone and showed me the evidence. Sir Corgnelius McFloofikins – his official title – filled the camera frame. A pink mass of tulle spread out from his waist in all directions. He looked scandalized.
“Can you send that to me? Megan and Stacey will lose their minds when they see it.”
“Sure. They really need to get an apartment that allows pets,” Jane said, her fingers flying over her phone.
“Agreed. Did you finish your article?”
She grinned. “Yeah. Want to have a glass of wine to celebrate?”
“Sure!” I said.
I was thrilled that we were back on good terms. Jane could hold a grudge, and as I’d predicted, it took her weeks to forgive me for the candy cane incident. I knew her extended annoyance was driven by the stress of the holidays and deadlines, and I’d tried to be good about giving her some space, even though I missed her and Dave and Willow. Sometimes Jane and Megan were more alike than I think either of them was willing to admit. I was beginning to suspect it was why they still didn’t get along.
We set Willow up in the living room, her favorite show on the TV and the dogs to keep her company, and retreated into the kitchen where we could still see her, but wouldn’t have to hear every word of the insidiously catchy songs the cartoon characters sang.
“What’s the article about?” I asked.
Jane, her back to me, poured us each a glass of red. “How the USFL is about to lose a lot of money to the players that are suing them.”
I nearly choked. “What?”
She turned around, glasses in hand. “You actually gave me the idea, so thanks forthat.”
WHAT?!
“I did?” I squeaked out.
“Yeah, that conversation you had with Dad and Jacob at Christmas about CTE got my wheels spinning.”
Oh, shit. Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit. I grabbed a glass from her and took a big gulp, trying to buy myself some time to think. I had to tell Ben. If I didn’t, and he saw that my sister had published an article about him, he’d think I’d betrayed his confidence.
“Jesus, slow down. It’s not a shot,” she said.
I took one more swig for bravery. “Who’s publishing it?”
Please let it be some small news outlet.
She grinned. “The New York Times.”
Fuck!
“That’s awesome, Jane! Congratulations!” I said with forced enthusiasm. “Cheers!” We clinked glasses. I set mine down on the counter. “One sec, I think I left something in the truck.”
“What…Ella, your jacket!” she called as I dashed out of the side door.
I whipped my phone from my pocket and immediately dialed Ben. “Pick up, please pick up.” I had so much adrenaline going that I couldn’t even feel the cold.
He answered after the fifth ring. “Hey there.”
“My sister is writing an article about your lawsuit for The New York Times.”
The silence on his end of the line was deafening.
“I didn’t tell her anything, Ben. I swear it.”
“I believe you.”
I let out a shaky breath. “She overheard me talking to my Dad and Jacob at Christmas about brain injuries and got inspired, so this is still my fault. I’m sorry. I’d just met you and was curious about CTE andsome of the studies I read. I needed someone to make sense of the medical jargon for me.”
