With that, I tug my suitcase up and spin on my heel, flinging the door open so hard it smashes into the wall behind it. I hate how fired up I am. How out of control I feel. But I hold my chin up, press my shoulders down, and walk out of that house with all the placid, unaffected composure I can muster.
“Does that mean you’re leaving me?”
How can someone so educated be so stupid? I almost laugh. Instead, I flip him the finger over my shoulder and keep walking.
“You don’t even like her!” he yells in a whiny tone that scrapes down my neck like nails on a chalkboard.
But I don’t dignify his jabs with a single glance back. I just take satisfaction in knowing he’s wrong.
That he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.
Because I love my sister.
I just have a fucked-up way of showing it.
I hope I don’t die now that I’m taking some control of my life back.
Chestnut Springs General Hospital is only an hour away from the house I live in, but it seems I’ll never get there. I started taking shifts here a few months ago, so I could probably make the drive with my eyes closed, but today it’s snowing hard enough that I’m white knuckling the steering wheel.
I’m also still stewing over losing my cool.
Rob started that fight by saying he can’t fathom why I’d want to work at this dingy hospital, and I didn’t feel inclined to tell him the truth.
One, that working in a hospital where I’m not his wife and my mother’s daughter is a relief. I can practice medicine and take pride in my work without having to contend with all the whispers and pitying glances. Without that shit hanging over my head.
Because everyone knows, but no one talks about it, and that approach to life is wearing on my sanity.
And two, because I’ve never wanted to be around my sister more than I do now. When she was sick, I used to sneak into the hospital and check on her, read her chart so I knew how she was doing even though I was still only in university. And now? Now, I look at my little sister and just see too many years missed.
I see a woman who lived in misery to save me a little of my own.
It would seem we’re kindred that way.
She’s happy now, engaged to a man whose hair is far too long but who loves her in a way that makes me green with envy. But I’m also happy for her—god knows she deserves a little peace. She left her law degree and secure job at our father’s sports management firm in the rearview mirror to run a gym and live on a picturesque little country bumpkin ranch.
I admire her.
But I have no idea how to mend the rift between us. So, I took a part-time position in the small town she’s living in, hoping I might run into her organically.
I have this recurring story in my head, one that crops up all the time. I must be trying to manifest it or some shit.
In it, she’s strolling down the sidewalk, and I bump straight into her as I exit the adorable little Parisian coffee shop on Main Street. She looks shocked to see me. I offer her a warm smile, and it isn’t forced. Then, I hike a thumb over my shoulder and say, “Hey, you, uh . . . wanna grab a coffee?” in a casual and charming way that will make her smile back at me.
Of course, I’d have to spend time somewhere other than the hospital or hotel for that to happen. But I keep slinking between the two safety zones, too scared and too embarrassed to face her.
“Fuck it,” I mumble as I sniff and sit up taller, eyes laser focused on the road. “Siri, call Summer Hamilton.”
The beat of silence that greets me is heavy, laden with years of anticipation.
“Calling Summer Hamilton,” the robotic voice replies. The formality is a jab to the chest. Most sisters would have some cute nickname in their phone. Perhaps I’d call her Sum if we were friends. As it is now, I might as well include her middle name in the contact listing.
The phone rings. Once. Twice.
And then she’s there. “Winter?” she asks breathlessly. My name isn’t an accusation on her lips though. It’s . . . hopeful.
“Hi,” I say stupidly. Because no number of years of education or reading medical textbooks could prepare me for this conversation. Since everything blew up in the hospital that day, I’ve played out this conversation in my head a million times. I’ve laid awake at night preparing myself.
And it wasn’t enough.
“Hi . . . are you . . . are you okay?”
I nod, while the bridge of my nose stings. I’ve been awful to Summer over the years and her first inclination is to ask if I’m okay.
“Win?”
I suck in a deep breath of air. Win. Fuck. That nickname. She just falls into it so easily. I absently wonder how I’m named in her contacts. I always imagined it was “Evil Half Sister” or something along those lines.
She’s just so fucking nice. It almost makes me nauseous that someone could be this nice to me after everything that we’ve been through, after how cold I’ve been to her.
I don’t deserve Summer. But I want to. And that comes with being honest.
“Not especially,” I finally say, trying to cover the hitch in my voice by clearing my throat.
“Okay.” I can imagine her nodding right now, rolling her lips together, mind-whirring as she tries to solve this problem for me. That’s just how she is. A fixer.
“Where are you? Do you need me to come and get you? Are you hurt?” She pauses. “Oh! Do you need legal help? I’m not practicing anymore, but I could—”
“Can I see you?” I blurt. And now it seems like it’s her turn for stunned silence. “I’m on my way to Chestnut Springs already. I could . . . I don’t know.” A ragged sigh drags its way up my throat. “Buy you a coffee?” I finish lamely, glancing at the digital clock that shows it’s already six p.m.
Her voice comes through the phone a little thick, a little soft. “I would love that. But we could do wine instead?”
A knot of tension unfurls in my chest, one I didn’t even know was there until now. And now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t help but feel like it’s been there for years.
“Yeah.” My fingers pulse on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Wine. Good.”
I sound like a fucking cavewoman.
“We’re having a family dinner at the main house tonight. There will be a bunch of people. I’d love if you came too.”
My throat clogs uncharacteristically. This brand of kindness feels foreign after living in a sterile bubble with Rob and my mom for so long. This brand of forgiveness . . . I don’t know how to react to it.
So I just roll with it. Seems like the least I can do.
“I’ll be there. Can you send me the address?”
In my haste to get the hell out of the city, I ignored my gas tank for as long as I could. No doubt, cutting it dangerously close. Which has only added to my anxiety the farther away I’ve gotten from that city limit.
So, I give in and stop for gas in Chestnut Springs before hitting the sketchy back road my phone mapped out to the ranch.
As I stand here, freezing and wishing I’d worn more appropriate outdoor winter clothing, I let all the worry creep in through my carefully erected walls.
Worry over seeing Summer.
Worry over sitting down to dinner with a bunch of people who no doubt think I’m a heinous bitch.