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“Like I said back at the club, I am never speaking to you again.”
“Okay. Starting when? Because you just spoke to me.”
She stamps her foot, the thud echoing through the stairwell. “You don’t get it, do you?I hate you.You never let me sing. You’re just jealous because you sound like a dying cat when you try to sing.”
Hurtful, but accurate.“I’m not jealous of you, Charlie.”
At least, not in the way she thinks.
I’m jealous because Charlie doesn’t worry for me. She’s not scared of failing as a parent. She doesn’t lie awake at night afraid that somebody could take me away. That’smyjob. Mom offered me an out when we found out she was sick. She was going to make arrangements for Charlie to be cared for by a distant relative, but I refused. I promised her I’d keep our family together and would protect my little sister. Except, talking is easy. Walking it out is much harder.
A hot breeze sweeps past us. Even at midnight, there’s no relief from the heat of a Vegas summer. Drops of sweat bead on her forehead. Her jean shorts touch the top of her knees. I wouldn’t let her wear a tank top tonight even though she wanted to. I made her put on a cropped cardigan so she wasn’t showing too much skin. It was fine in the air-conditioned club, but out here, she’s burning up. Maybe I’m overly protective of my little sister, but I’m terrified of Charlie being victimized and humiliated the way I once was.
“Come on. I’m tired.” Reaching down, I pull off my gold, strappy sandals that are starting to dig into my skin. I sigh in relief when my bare feet touch the concrete, my toes no longer strangled. “Let’s go home.”
I continue to ascend the stairs, past Charlie. When I don’t hear her footsteps behind me, I stop on the landing and turn to see her glistening eyes.
“I’m not going.” Her tears pool, armed and ready to drop to the ground like little grenades of frustration. In moments like these, I want to be her big sister, not her mom. I want to complain with her that it’s not fair and Mom’s just being overprotective for no reason. But I have to do what’s right. Not what feels good.
“Charlie, move it. Mad or not, you’re sleeping in your bed tonight. Not outside.”
“But you said ‘let’s go home.’” She sniffles and paws at her face with the back of both hands, trying to control the tears that are now in full force.
“So?” I jab my finger up the final flight of stairs toward apartment 3F.
Instead of storming past me as I expected, she drags her feet softly. Her shoulders slump. She leaves a trail of tear splashes behind her. Quietly, so I can barely hear her, she says, “This isn’t our home.”
I didn’t bark at Charlie to brush her teeth and wash her face last night. She was so upset, I let her slip into her room and shut and lock the door behind her. I’m sure her pillow is smeared with the glittery eye shadow I let her borrow.
Surprisingly, I fell asleep easily. The drama of the night took me out. Not surprisingly, I dreamed abouthim.Sexy, suave, sweet Nate who I absolutely blew my chances with.
As I whisk the pancake mix into my french toast batter, I scrunch my toes against the tile floor, reliving the nightmare of embarrassment. Within a split second I went from almost kissing Mr. Too Hot to Handle, to smashing his phone and fleeing the scene. We didn’t even kiss in mydream. He was shirtless and giving me a foot rub, though. While I, for some reason, had on a bright orange terrycloth onesie. I’m so out of touch with my own sexuality that even in my dreams I’m awkward.
Jesse would rarely ask for sex. I caught him several times satisfying his urges with his dick in one hand and cell phone in the other watching porn. He claimed sex alone was sometimes just quicker than sex together—simply a means to an end.
But I knew it was me. I was the problem. Sex was so ritualistic. I’d have to be perfectly shaved, freshly showered, and it could only happen at night under the cover of darkness. I only owned one pair of bikini-cut black underwear that actually made me feel sexy. If I were even slightly bloated, it was all off the table.
So that wasn’t fair to my ex-fiancé. By the time he’d initiate intimacy, the poor guy would have to wait a solid hour for me to “get ready.” And we both knew there was zero chance of himgetting me off. I’d be too preoccupied with how much of my body he could see and what’s jiggling or dimpled. The verylastthing I think about during sex is having an actual orgasm.
I bet Nate’s the kind of guy who is used to his dates screaming at the top of their lungs with their face buried in a pillow. It’s good nothing happened between us. He would’ve been sorely disappointed. Unless he stayed for breakfast, in which case, I would’ve wowed him. What I lack in bedroom skills, I make up for in spades with my cooking.
The entire apartment is now aromatic with salty bacon and scrambled eggs, thick, fluffy french toast, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. But there’s still no Charlie in sight. Rolling my eyes, I shove a fork into her eggs, grab her plate and glass of orange juice, then head to her room.
I’m amazed to find the door unlocked and the tiniest bit cracked open. Either she had to pee in the middle of the night and forgot to lock it back, or this is her peace offering. The effort we put into making up after a fight is a little unbalanced. I make her a beautiful full-spread breakfast filled with her favorite foods. She begrudgingly unlocks her door.
“Charlie?” Hands full, I knock with my elbow, sending the door wide open. She’s sitting on her bed, covers draped over her lap, with a thick scrapbook open in front of her.
“I’m sorry.” She hurries her words like she’s been waiting to say them all morning.
“Me too.” I hold up the plate and cup. “Peace offering?”
Her cheeks bunch up as she smiles, reminding me of five-year-old Charlie. A flood of both warmth and guilt washes over me at once. I quickly cross the room, set her food on the nightstand, then tackle her with a big hug. Charlie squeals as I plant kisses all over her head and cheeks, while tickling the ever-loving daylights out of her. It takes her a full minute to fight me off, pushing against my stomach with her heel.
“Stoooop,” she manages to whine, even though she’s breathless between giggles. She makes a protective barrier with her body over the photo album. “You’re going to rip it.”
“Okay, okay. I’m done. What page are you looking at?”
Charlie straightens out, then falls backward against the cloth headboard. She taps the black album page with her toe. “Is this Mom’s real hair or a wig?”