“You sure you don’t need a bit of a break before we tackle the steps?” Despite the height and body of an Amazon, Biba does not exercise. Will not exercise. Someone was surely smiling down at her parents to give their daughter both the beauty and the brains.
I’d hate her if I didn’t love her so much.
“I can keep up with you any day,” Biba grumbles as she starts off at a too-fast clip, one which will surely slow to a crawl by the top.
“No. You can’t. But I love you enough to carry you if you need it.” Even though I’m pack-mule strong for my size, I hope it never comes to that.
With some heavy breathing, Biba makes it and I hurry to unlock the door so she can have a sit down.
The key works as good as it did the day I left, and we’re inside.
For a momentIneed a sit-down, because Liv’s apartment smells like Liv and it hits me like a hammer; a mixture of the Victoria’s Secret body spray, sandalwood candles, and hand sanitizer.
Biba sinks onto the artsy bench by the front door, the one that looks like it shouldn’t be sat upon. I resist the urge to take a picture of Biba and send it to Liv, and pad along the hall, shoes still on, pet peeve or no pet peeve. The collection of dog toys in the corner of the living room has grown exponentially since I left. Once again, I am offended on behalf of Rusty.
The new dog is not here, so wherever Liv and The New Girl went, they took the Poo with them.
Of course I know where they are; it’s super easy to track someone on social media these days.
Hedgehog is in the bottom of the basket. I toss it to Biba as I scope out the living room. It looks the same. Same throw pillows in their matching shades of blue, same framed pictures on the bookshelves along with the same thick tomes of Shakespeare, Austen, and War and Peace, the books Liv has never, will never open, and only bought to give the impression of being a literary intellectual.
How do I end up knowing so much about a person when they don’t know me at all?
Looking closer into the room, I realize something is different. The delicate bamboo frame with the artful curlicues that I bought Liv has a new picture—the black and white of me and Liv holding Rusty is gone and what looks like a GlamourShot of a really pretty woman has replaced it.
New girlfriend. Much prettier than me. That doesn’t justify Liv being so dishonest and downright deceptive for weeks while she figured out how best to get me out of her life.
No matter. I’m over it. To prove just how much I’m over her, I take the frame and open the flap on the back. Underneath New Girl is the picture of us. I take it out, rip it down the middle, and put it back in.
Some day Liv will find it and either know I was here—or she might blame New Girl. Either way is fine.
“Rachel?” Biba calls. “Stop doing whatever you’re doing and let’s get out of here.”
“Uno momento.” Setting the frame exactly where I found it, I give the room a last look. While I’m tempted to poke my head into the bedroom, Biba is right. We need to get out of here. But not before…
From my little backpack, I take out a baggie, wrapped in another baggie, and sealed into a third baggie. When I unwrap it all, the heady smell of dog poo wafts out.
A little going-away present from me.
Boen
“What do you possibly think you’ll benefit from going on that show?” I demand, glaring at the screen of my phone like Bexley is in the room with me.
I don’t know if it would be better or worse if my sister were here with me. I don’t think it would help my understanding of her headspace right now.
A reality show? And not only that, but adatingone?
“I meet the man who can be my husband?” my twin replies with a laugh. “Or at least meet a nice guy. Have some fun. You should try it.”
A motorcycle stutters by on the street and threatens to distract me, but this is too important. This is my sister’slife.
“How do you know he’s nice?” I ignore the dig about having fun, since Bexley will only repeat it again before the conversation is over. “ThisSuitoris someone out for his fifteen minutes of fame. He’ll have his own agenda and you’re not going to be part of it. And realistically, the possibility of you developing a long-term relationship with someone you just met, and under the constant scrutiny of cameras, is non-existent. You have to know that.”
Can I be any clearer that this is a bad idea?
My sister—mysister—has applied to be a contestant for the next season of The Suitor and expects me to be okay with it. It’s times like these that I’m convinced I got her share of the brains while we were in utero. “And what about the other girls on the show?” I add. “They could be mean. They’ll try to sabotage you.”
Shelaughsat the thought, even though I’m practically shaking with fear of her being hurt. “It wouldn’t be much of a show if they didn’t. Look, little brother—”
