“Yeah? Having adventures?”
I nod and tell her about the day I planned for them. The bartender comes partway through my monologue to put down my drink, complete with a dragon paper cutout and unfurled green tea leaves at the bottom. Phoebe’s has most of a mint plant sticking out the top. We sip and trade again.
“Banana soda’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” I say.
“This is amazing.” She steals another sip of mine before I grab it back.
She exchanges the album for the Supremes, and we sit in a not-uncomfortable silence. I sneak looks at her between sips, but Phoebe is focused on the display of records.
I miss you.
I want to say it.
Instead I say, “How long are you staying?”
“Not sure.” She glances over out of eyes so similar to mine that it’s unnerving, like looking in a slightly distorted mirror or an alternate timeline. “As long as I need. I’m in no hurry.”
“Don’t you need to get back to work?”
“I can work from here as long as I want.” She swills half her drink and grimaces. The Supremes inform us we can’t hurry love. “It doesn’t matter anyway, Ari. There’s more to life than work.”
“Yeah, but you’ll leave anyway. You always do.”
Her eyes widen as I tap on the counter, my ears pounding. What the hell did I say? I’ve avoided talking about our past for years. There’s no need to bring it up. What’s done is done.
“That’s not fair.”
“Forget it.”
“No, Ari. I want to talk. I called you to talk. What happened with Dad made me realize I don’t want to keep leaving things like this with you.”
She doesn’t hold my hand or do anything sappy because, as different as we are, we’ve both been raised by Martin Hui, emotional statue par excellence, and Susan (Soolin) Hui, an only slightly more emotional being.
“Okay,” I say.
“That’s it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
I feel trapped. “What do you even want from me? You took off when I was a kid. You never call. Never email. Now you want some special sister badge because you apologized for walking out on me again?”
“Of course not.” She glares at me.
“Sorry. My mistake.” I look at the time. “I should go. I’ve got a headache and work tomorrow.”
“Come on, Ari. My life isn’t only about you.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” I dig around in my bag and slam some money on the table. “See you later.”
“Don’t be like that. Let’s talk.”
“About what?”
She looks down at her hands. That’s all the answer I need. If I stay and we talk, then I have to dredge up years of pain that I’ve very successfully tucked deep down inside.
If part of me wants to stay, well, that’s the part that always gets hurt. The part that needs to be protected.
