“I implied nothing,” she says airily. “I asked a question.”
Our eyes meet. I telepathically call bullshit. Kate beams a silent middle finger my way.
I stand at the sink, white-knuckling its edge, while Kate leans one hip against the counter and glares death at me. Raw, electric aggravation crackles in the air between us.
Why, when I can control everything else in my life, can’t I control this?
As if looking at Kate hard enough will answer my question, I stare at her, hating that I notice every tiny auburn tendril kissing the nape of her neck. My gaze dips to her clothes, the ripped-up jean overalls she’s wearing, the gray long-sleeve shirt that’s so gossamer light I can see her skin through it.
I spend enough time around wealth to know her wardrobe isn’t the purposefully distressed style rich folks drop three, even four figures on. Her clothes are old, sun-bleached, and threadbare. I wonder if she’s struggled to find work or keep it, if that’s why she looks like this—beaten-up clothes draping on her beanpole-thin frame. If she’s home because she’s financially strained.
My chest tightens sharply.
Her eyes narrow, still holding mine. “Stop staring at me.”
“I’m not staring at you,” I lie, rinsing my smarting thumb under cold water. “I’m trying not to gag at the sight of you eating tofurkey and gravy made with vegetable broth.”
“Yes, well, at least I can rest easy knowing an animal wasn’t slaughtered for me to consume on a holiday commemorating mass genocide of indigenous peoples.” She throws me a fake-as-hell smile. “Not that you’d understand, Christopher, but some of us like to sleep with a clear conscience at night.”
My jaw clenches. I slap off the water I’ve been running over my cut, then wrap my thumb in a paper towel. “Of course. Because I’m so morally bankrupt.”
She glares at me and stabs another piece of tofurkey. “I’m not sure what else you call someone who makes a living off of widening the wealth gap in this fucked-up country, but—”
“If you remotely understood what I did, Katerina, you’d comprehend that I’m trying to leverage wealth in this country to close that gap, to direct capital into initiatives and organizations dedicated to counteracting social inequities—”
“Ah, right!” She tosses her fork into the now-empty container on the counter. “How could I forget? ‘Ethical investing.’？” Her air quotes are made a little less impactful since she only has one hand at her disposal, but it still pisses me off. “That’s what you pretend it is.”
The door from the dining room swings open as Bill and Maureen enter the kitchen, Bill’s laptop tucked under his arm from their video call with Jules, two small coffee cups in Maureen’s hands. I’m too livid to acknowledge them.
“Pretend?” I ask Kate. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, but then again, how would you? You ran off the moment you could and haven’t once looked back. You don’t know about my life. You don’t know about any of our lives. Because guess what happens when you leave, Kate?” I step closer to her, my voice tight and furious. “You miss things. Like your dad’s retirement party. The launch of your mom’s after-school gardening program. Bea’s last art show before she stopped painting. Jules’s awards ceremony for being one of the city’s most promising thirty under thirty.”
“And you just live to lord that over me, don’t you?” she growls, stepping into my space. “Perfect Christopher. Knows-everything Christopher. Christopher who’s always there because terrible Kate isn’t.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to,” she snaps. “It’s implied in everything that comes out of your judgmental mouth. I’m not good enough. I’m doing things wrong. I’m a fuckup. But guess what, Petruchio? You don’t get to make me feel like shit about who I am or the life I live.” She lifts her chin, her voice louder as she points toward her family and says, “They know I love them. They know I care. I call. I email. I send care packages. I’m here when I’m needed.”
“You were always needed!”
“I’m here now, okay? I’m fucking here!”
“Finally!” I step closer, so close our bodies brush, jolting us both. “It’s about goddamn time.”
My breath is fast and ragged as heat pulses through my veins. Kate stares up at me, wide-eyed and flushed. I realize that she’s ended up pressed back into the counter, that my hands are planted there on either side of her, bracketing her in. I tell them to let go. I tell my body to move away.