Before I’ve even opened one document, before my computer has finished booting up, my phone rings. The screen lights up with a photo of Jemma and me from Christmas, both of us wearing ridiculous reindeer antlers. It’s Jemma.
I stare at the screen, hands poised above my keyboard, frozen. I really need to do this work. The insurance companies won’t wait forever, and my patients need their claims processed. But also, my sister’s calls are another thing I haven’t gotten to this week—a video call on Tuesday, two texts yesterday—going unanswered while I’ve been processing everything with Oliver. She’s probably worried enough at this point that if I don’t answer she’ll be halfway to Pine Island before dark.
Then again... There’s a reason I’ve been avoiding her, and it’s not a light one.
The call keeps coming, the phone vibrating against my desk,getting dangerously close to the last ring. On impulse, driven by guilt and sisterly obligation, I hit the answer button. “Hey.”
“Hey. How are you?” Her voice has that particular tone she uses when she’s trying to sound casual but isn’t.
Is that suspicion in her tone? A hint of accusation? Or maybe I’m only imagining it, projecting my own guilt onto her words.
“I’m good,” I say, deliberately keeping my voice level. “How about you?”
“Pretty good. We have the bridesmaid fitting this weekend.” She doesn’t sound particularly enthused about it.
“That’s awesome.” Her lack of excitement is notable. She’s been looking forward to being in her best friend’s wedding for months. Is she mad at me for not being more reachable? For missing our usual Tuesday night video call?
“How are you feeling, really?” Jemma asks, cutting straight through any pretense. “Have you had any symptoms this week?”
The question makes me shift in my chair. She knows my patterns, knows when I’m hiding something health-related.
“I’ve been a little dizzy, but not much.” It’s true—just a few moments here and there, mostly when I’ve forgotten to eat.
“Are you eating regularly?” There it is, the sister-radar zeroing in on exactly what I don’t want to discuss.
I press my knuckles to my lips, considering how best to answer. She knows my tendency to skip meals when I get busy, knows how my blood sugar crashes can trigger whole cascades of symptoms. “I just ate.”
Which is true. Even though it was half a loaf of banana bread in the car on the way over and not a full, healthy meal with protein and vegetables like she’d want.
“Good.” She pauses, and I can practically hear her gathering herself for the next question. “Have you run into Oliver?”
The banana bread in my stomach turns into a hard rock,sitting heavy and uncomfortable. My fingers tighten on the phone. “I’ve seen him at the rink.”
And at yoga. And at Rye Again. And just now, when he brought me banana bread he made himself after failing four times.
I’m not lying. I’m just not telling her the whole truth. I’m definitely not telling her about the way my heart races when I see him, or how his panic attacks make me want to protect him, or how different he seems.
And I don’t want to, because when Jemma has her mind made up, she sticks to it like superglue. Changing her opinion is like trying to push a boulder up a mountain with your bare hands. If I tell her Oliver and I are talking, that he seems to have grown and changed and become someone different than the man who hurt me, she’ll unleash a whole new can of fury. Once she hates something or someone, she plants her flag on that hill and prepares to die there, no matter what evidence you present to the contrary.
She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, like she’s tasted something rotten. “Does he try to talk to you?”
“Things are okay.” I do my best to bypass answering directly, arranging the papers on my desk into neat piles. “We’re coexisting.”
“I guess that’s the best you can hope for.” The relief in her voice is palpable. “Hey, did you see the link I sent you to that windbreaker? I was thinking about getting it for Mom and giving it to her in Michigan.”
Michigan.One more thing I’ve been avoiding, pushing to the back of my mind like old leftovers in the fridge.
Usually, I can’t wait for our family’s annual ski trip, which we take every February without fail. It’s been our tradition since Jemma and I were kids, all of us piling into a rental house, spending days on the slopes and nights playing board games by the fire. This year is different, though. I only recentlystarted working my normal hours again after a crazy year of health shakeups that had me cutting back to part-time. It feels good to be back in my routine, to feel useful and productive again, and I already don’t feel like traveling so soon after the chaos of Christmas.
Also, I checked the high school sports calendar yesterday—not that I’m obsessing or anything—and one of the biggest hockey games of the season falls during the ski trip. The regional championship preliminary. Normally I wouldn’t care at all, but now that Oliver and I are warming up I kind of really want to go to that game.
I’m not going to waste my breath telling Jemma any of that. What would be the point? She would only argue with her limitless energy, wearing me down like water on stone until I give in. It’s easier to just go along, to let her think everything is the same as it’s always been.
“I saw the email,” I say, clicking my mouse to wake up my computer screen. “I think she’d like the purple one.”
“Same. Have you gotten your ticket yet? Which airline are you flying?”
“Uh, I was actually just about to book it.” Another lie. I haven’t even looked at flights yet.
