Tank top. Sleep shorts. Hair down and damp from the shower.
The Hampton bedside light behind her in her room, which puts her in silhouette against the doorframe.
"You sleeping?"
"No."
"Me neither."
She doesn't come in. Just stands there.
I don't move. I don't tell her to come in, and I don't tell her to go to bed.
I don't doanyof the things a man in my position would do.
"My phone buzzed," she says. "I thought I'd tell you."
"Who."
"Presley. Just a good luck for tomorrow."
I wait.
"There's no tomorrow for me at this qualifier. I rode this morning. I'm done."
"Tell her that."
"I don't know if I want to."
"Why?"
She's quiet for a second.
"She told me good luck. She doesn't know I rode already. She sent it because she remembered I was here."
"Yeah."
"I haven't really answered her in months, Spur."
"I know."
"What do I say?"
I think about it. Take my time. The rain on the window. The hum of the AC unit. The light from her room across the floor of mine.
"You don't have to say anything. You can answer or not. But what you've done for the last few months is what the past version of you looked like. Today's a different day."
She doesn't answer for a long time.
Then I hear her phone unlock, the sound of her thumb on a screen, the swoosh of a sent message.
The room goes a little brighter for a second as her screen flares. "What did you send her?"
"A thumbs up."
I try not to sound judgmental, but I know I am. "That's what you've got for your sister after the better part of ignoring her?"
"It's what I have right now."
