1
HOPE
“I thoughtyou were only staying for a few days,” I say to my sister as I drag three heavy suitcases from the trunk of my car. If I didn’t know how much Hillary loathes getting her hands dirty, I’d think she stuffed dead bodies in her luggage. What the actual fuck is in these things?
“Through New Year’s,” Hillary says, tapping away at her phone as I do all the heavy lifting and nearly fall on my ass when my boot catches a patch of black ice. Not that my sister notices. To her, I’m just the busboy—except Iwon’tget a tip.
“Which New Year’s exactly?”
Hillary lets out her soft, borderline condescending laugh as she drops her phone into her coat pocket—a fancy coat that’s probably worth more than my little car. She glances down my freshly shoveled sidewalk, and her face contorts, as though she’s just swallowed sour milk.
“Thisis your house?”
There’s the familiar passive-aggressive disapproval I’ve been expecting since I picked her up at the airport an hour ago.
“What’s wrong with my house?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Which, of course, meanseverythingis wrong with my dated little yellow ranch with its covered front porch. It doesn’t matter thatIlove it. It’s a far cry from the mini mansion she’s used to. Which makes her last-minute visit all the more confusing.
Why, after years of refusing to step foot in Daisy Hills, has she suddenly decided to show up now? There’s nothing here for her. Our relationship is rocky at best, so I don’t buy her sister bonding time excuse. She’s also going to hate the guest room, which is the size of a glorified closet. But it was that or the pull-out couch.
Once upon a time, we used to camp out in our living room on the powder blue pull-out couch. We’d hide beneath the sheets and try to scare each other with made-up ghost stories. Back when we used to be sisters who actually liked each other.
But thirty-four-year-old Hillary Michaels would not be caught dead on a pull-out couch.
“I can check with the B&B again. See if they’ve had any cancellations,” I offer, though I already know they’re booked solid. I’ve been calling twice a day since Hillary dropped this bomb about a surprise “sister-bonding” visit on me three days ago.
It’s just until New Years.
“No, no. This’ll do,” Hillary says, heading toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I call after her, surrounded by a circle of heavy suitcases as her heeled boots echo off the pavement.
“Inside. It’s cold out here.”
“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath, hefting each suitcase onto the sidewalk so they’re at least off the street. The temptation to leave them on the curb is overwhelming, but if I have any chance of surviving this visit, I need to play nice.
I shoulder the tote bag Hillary left in the snow and drag one of the cinderblock-filled suitcases behind me.
“Do you always leave your front door unlocked when you’re not home?” she asks when I catch up. She pushes it open and walks right in like this is some kind of hotel instead of my home. “But then again, I doubt anyone’s breaking in to stealyourthings.”
I take a deep inhale that burns my lungs and silently count backward from ten.
“Hope, why on earth is your Christmas tree still up?”
“Why would I have taken it down?” I ask, tugging the luggage inside and highly debating abandoning the rest as I pull the door shut behind me. My gaze flashes to the massive seven-foot tree in the corner. One covered in nearly a thousand lights and more garland than any sane person should own.
It’s…perfect.
“Because it’s not Christmas anymore. Oh my God, why does it look like Whoville threw up inside your house? There’s tacky decorationseverywhere.” She scans my living room, a horrified expression etched on her face. “What the hell? Are those Christmas lights tacked up along the ceiling?”
“It’s still December.”
“December twenty-ninth.”
My heart hurts a little at her harsh judgment. Growing up, it was always our tradition to leave the tree up through New Year’s Eve. Mom made January first a celebration of putting away the decorations. Really, it was her way of making sure she didn’t have to do it all alone. But as a kid, I remember it being fun. There were always snacks, Christmas music, and laughter.
A small, stupid part of me thought Hillary might remember that tradition and be a little excited to do it with me.
