Page 31

Down the hall, the elevator dings.

He steps back like I burned him. Whatever cracked open in his face seals shut, the control snapping into place so fast I almost doubt I saw it break to begin with. He says, "Good night, Agnes," in the flat nothing voice he uses every day, and he's gone before the elevator doors even open.

I stand alone in the kitchen with my hand pressed to my own jaw, right where his knuckle was, and I understand two things at the same time.

One: I am in so far over my head I can no longer see daylight.

Two: I’m pissed that fucking elevator dinged.

I've had this exact thought before, about a phone that rang at precisely the wrong moment, interrupting a moment between Theo and me. It's turning into a thing. It's becoming my story.

So I turn off the kitchen light and I go home to set up my camera, because I have apparently decided that the smart move, whether quit, run, vanish, or protect myself, is a move for women who are not as stupid and not as far gone as I am.

I finally pick up Sal Petrakis’s call on the fifth try, because you can only dodge a man like Sal so long before dodging him leads to certain death, or at least a couple broken legs.

"Agnes." Sal never raises his voice. That's the thing about Sal. He says your name like he's already disappointed in you. "You've been hard to reach."

"I've been working. That's the whole point, right? Me working, so I can pay you."

"Mmm." He pauses, neither agreeing or disagreeing with me. "The fall date hasn't moved. Full balance, one payment, and I don't do extensions. I do consequences. So. Where are we?"

"Well, you’ll be happy to hear we're making progress. Actually, I am the one making progress." And it's true. "I've knocked real money off it. More every week. I'll have a serious payment for you by the end of the month." I don’t tell him I’m hoping to have enough left over for teeth whitening.

"Progress." He turns the word over like a coin he suspects is fake. "I like progress, Agnes. A lot more than I like excuses. Don't turn into an excuse."

He hangs up without saying goodbye, the way men like Sal do, and I sit there with sweat on the back of my neck and remember, all over again, exactly why I put on my red lipstick every night.

So when the hour rolls around, I put it on again. Thick, red, war paint. I've got the lamp scarfed, the camera balanced on its little tower, the nine-dollar slip laid out on the bed, and I'm minutes from going live when my front door buzzer goes off like a fire alarm.

Nobody buzzes me. I do not have friends who drop by. That's the entire design of my life.

"It's meeeee!" Birdie sings through the intercom. "Surprise! I was in the neighborhood and I brought wine and a business proposition, in that order of importance!"

I have a small, silent heart attack, and then I move.

I've got maybe ninety seconds while she climbs three flights, and I use every one of them. Camera off the tripod, into the closet. Slip, jammed under a sofa cushion, and I pull on a robe. The scarf on the lamp I leave, because it's just a scarf and people are allowed to have scarves. I'm shoving the twenty-dollar gluten-free lube into a drawer when she knocks, and I open the door out of breath, hair a disaster, mouth painted like I'm auditioning for a role as a camgirl.

Oops.

This is the very first thing she notices. Of course.

"Whoa." Birdie stops dead in the doorway, wine bottle in one hand, and points at my face like she's spotted a UFO. "Wait. Are you… is that RED? Red lipstick? On you?"

"It's nothing. I was just—" Just what? Trying it on at eleven at night, for no one? "Messing around."

"Since when do you own red? You wear tinted ChapStick and call it a day." She's circling me now, delighted, visibly rebuilding her entire mental model of her boring older sister. "It looks incredible. It looks unhinged. I'm obsessed. Oh my God.” She clasps her hands under her chin. "Can I have it? Please? Pretty please with abundance on top? It would be so good with my coloring, and unless you have a secret glamorous life you’re hiding from me, you know you’ll never wear it again."

She has no idea how completely she just stepped on the truth.

And because I have never once in my life managed to say no to Birdie, I say, "Sure. Take it."

I hand my little sister Diablo's war paint like it's a party favor. She caps it, drops it in her bag with a happy wiggle, and I tell myself it's fine. It's a lipstick. It's fine.

"Okay. Wine, and then the pitch." She's already in my cabinets hunting for glasses. "Because you, my genius sister, are about to save my life. Again."

"Birdie, isn’t it kind of late⁠—"

"Candles." She says it like a spell. "Hand-poured, small-batch, intention-infused candles. It's a whole thing, it's very now, I've got a supplier and a name and a color story. The only thing I don't have is somebody to handle the boring money part. The books, the spreadsheets, all of it. And that's your whole deal now, right?" She narrows her eyes, teasing. "Or is it still the secret rich boyfriend? Because I have theories, Ag. I have several theories. But whichever one's paying your bills, you're the most competent person I know. So. My books. Do them. It's fate."