"Ugh, stop. I’myoung, I’msingle, and I’mbored," she says dismissively, sipping her wine. "You want some?"
"God, yes." I sigh, dragging the rest of the ripped bags across the linoleum. Miraculously, nothing spilled or leaked, so at leastthere’sonesmall win tonight. "But open the red for me. It'll go better with the chili I’m making."
Taylor’s nose scrunches. "You’remaking chili?"
"Yeah, why? You used to love when I made it."
Her lips press together in a thin line before she mutters, "Well, you remember wrong. But it’sfine. It’s whatever. I’ll eat it."
I don’t react. I just focus on unpacking.
Taylor is my half-sister, a fact I only discovered at the age of ten. She was the daughter of the mistress; I was the daughter of the wife. We share our father’s piercing blue eyes, but while Taylor is practically his clone, I’m a stark contrast. My wild, dark curls and sun-kissed skin stand out against their fair features and pin-straight blond hair. My father always claimed that all of my traits came from my mother, but I have only hazy memories of her. She left around the same time Taylor arrived, storming out in a violent rage, smashing dishes, and burning all my father's clothes in the front yard. So pissed off, she forgot all about me, I guess.
Taylor slides a glass of red wine across the countertop just as I start chopping onions. "You’re really good with that knife," she muses, watching my hands move. "How do you do that so fast without slicing your knuckles off?"
"Years of practice," I reply with a yawn. "And plenty of Band-Aids."
She barely listens, already rummaging through a drawer, then a cabinet, clearly searching for something. I know what she’s after before she even finds it.
Sure enough, her eyes light up as she pulls outmybeloved Fruit Roll-Ups. Without a second thought, she peels one open and pops the whole thing into her mouth. "Did you make me a cake?" she asks, chewing loudly.
"No, I did not," I say flatly, glaring as she grabs another pack without hesitation.
She scoffs, raising an eyebrow as she smushes the second roll-up into a ball and devours it. "Seriously?"
"Stop eating my Fruit Roll-Ups," I grumble. "I made you some red velvet cupcakes and a dozen macarons for when you leave."
That’s a lie.
Ididmake them—just not for her. Thankfully, I had extra from the last party I catered.
"Then I’m leavingright now," she declares, laughing as she pulls open the fridge. "Where are you hiding them?"
I glance up from chopping vegetables and watch Taylor rummage through my fridge, and something feels off. Despite the flawlessly applied makeup, she looks thinner than the last time I saw her. Not in anew diet, new routinekind of way, more like she’s been running on fumes. There are other differences too, subtle ones only an older sister would notice. Her cheeks are a little more hollow, her hair finer, duller. The usual spark in her expression has dimmed. She looks exhausted, and much older than twenty-five.
Taylor has always been chasing the next big role, bouncing from audition to audition. But as far as I know, the only thing she ever booked was a toothpaste commercial three years ago. I wonder what’s really been going on with her.
"Have you gotten any good roles lately?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.
Taylor shoves her third macaron into her mouth, eyes fluttering shut like she’s having a full-blownfoodgasm. She slumps against the open refrigerator, holding up a finger as if she needs a moment to recover. "S’good," she mumbles through a mouthful.
Iknow.They’re my specialty—little home-baked orgasms.
She finally snaps the lid back onto the container and returns it to the fridge. "Are you going to be selling these at the bakery?" she asks, skillfully dodging my question.
"Absolutely," I say with a smirk. "Now let’s go back to you.Tell me about work."
She exhales dramatically, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. "Ugh. No. It’shorribleout there. I’ve done a few auditions, but no callbacks. So…" She hesitates, just for a second. "I’ve been working the tables at the Bellagio."
I pause mid-chop, my knife hovering over the cutting board. I stare at her, trying to gauge how serious she is.
She avoids my eyes and shrugs. "Don’t look at me like that. It’snota bad gig."
Vegas.
Is she there with him?
Is that where Dad is now?
