No. Not even remotely.
“I’m fine,” I tell her instead.
“Fine. But if you collapse on my floor, I’m going to be very annoyed.”
“Noted.”
When she leaves, I let out a long exhale. Lying is exhausting when you aren’t used to it. By evening, I feel like I’ve done surgery for twelve hours with no food, no sleep, and someone shouting in my ear. I make it back to my room, kick off my shoes, and sit on the edge of the bed with both hands over my face.
And then my phone rings.
Daria.
Of course it’s Daria.
I stare at the screen until it almost stops, then answer because ignoring her again will only make her call ten more times.
“Hi.”
“Why do you sound like death?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“I’m serious. Are you sick?”
“Just tired.”
“You always say that when you’re either hiding from me or actively bleeding.”
“That is an outrageous standard.”
“It’s also accurate.”
Despite everything, my mouth almost curves. Daria has always had the gift of sounding affectionate and accusing at the same time.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Wow. Nice. I called to check on you.”
“Mm.”
She makes a disapproving sound. “Also, Kira had her recital today, and since her own mother is useless with technology, Pyotr had to record it for me.”
I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes. “How was it?”
“She played beautifully.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“You say that like you don’t believe me.”
“She’s seven, and seven-year-olds are not known for musical restraint.”
Daria laughs, and warmth blooms in my chest. There it is. My sister. The version of home I can still reach by phone.
“No,” she says, smiling through the word. “Listen to me. She walked out there in that little navy dress like she owned the piano, bowed to exactly the wrong side of the room, then sat down and played the entire piece without looking at the sheet music once.”
Something inside me folds, and I put my hand over my stomach before I even think about it.
