Chapter 5
T he jarring sound of my cell phone startles me out of a hazy dream of bright pink hibiscus flowers and lush green palm trees.
I must have forgotten to turn off my ringer last night.
After Vanessa left, I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich, drank some Gatorade, and went straight to bed.
I know this because there’s a plate of crumbs and a half-full glass on my nightstand.
My dress is at the foot of my bed, and all I have on is my underwear.
I glance at the art deco clock on my wall. There’s only one person who would call me at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. I don’t even have to look at the caller ID.
“Hi, Christy,” I mutter into the phone, still groggy.
“Are you okay?” she asks immediately, sounding less like a little sister and more like a mom.
Not our mom. Our mom has always been a bit too emotionally checked out to notice what’s going on with us.
And even if she did, she’s never been one to dish out maternal advice.
But I stopped wishing for that kind of relationship with her a long time ago.
I hardly ever call her anymore. And I rarely hear from her, unless it’s a special occasion.
I guess that’s why Christy’s taken it upon herself to check in on me.
“I’m fine. I was out late last night, that’s all.” I sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t worry about me so much.”
“Were you on a date?” she asks me after a beat, her tone more hopeful.
I roll my eyes. “No…I was out with friends.” At least I can say that much. Hopefully it’s enough to satisfy my sister. She doesn’t like the idea of me being alone in a new city.
“Oh, good! I’m glad you’re meeting people,” she says, the relief in her voice making me feel totally pathetic.
It’s ironic how the tables have turned since we were teenagers.
Christy always wished she were as popular as I was back then.
No, she didn’t have a constant entourage like I did—but the handful of friends she had were really good ones.
They’re all still in touch, and Christy’s been a bridesmaid in two of their weddings so far.
I can’t say the same about the girls who worshipped me in high school.
Maybe now my sister finally understands how superficial my friendships were.
“And how’s work?” she asks, going down her mental list of weekly questions for me.
“Work’s been good. I got two more referrals this week. I don’t think I’m gonna have any trouble keeping busy.”
It’s the one area of my life I’ve always had success with—if only I enjoyed it.
“How are things with you?” I ask Christy, to take the heat off me.
“The usual,” she says. “I just signed a new client. I’m up to my eyeballs in manuscripts.”
“I guess that’s to be expected when you’re the star agent at Hanover Literary.”
She scoffs. “Hardly the star. I’m just trying to keep my head above water. My entire life is basically work, and training for the marathon. Kyle and I are about to go for a run in Central Park.”
I smile wistfully. “It’s sweet that you always run together.”
My sister met her boyfriend, Kyle, junior year of college, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.
Right after graduation, they moved into a tiny apartment in the East Village, where they’ve been living for the last six years.
The only reason they aren’t already married is because they can’t yet afford Christy’s dream wedding at the New York Public Library.
She’s quiet for several seconds before she responds. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you had someone to go for runs with in the morning?”
“I prefer yoga,” I say casually, because I know it’ll annoy her.
My sister sighs, already exasperated with me (it doesn’t take much). “You know what I mean, Jenna.”
“And you know that I don’t like talking about this stuff with you, Christy.”
“All I want is for my big sister to be happy. Why does that offend you so much?”
“Because you don’t think I can be happy unless I’m in a serious relationship.
But you’re wrong. Being single isn’t the end of the world.
You only think it is because you’ve been with the same person for eight years.
That’s practically your entire adulthood so far.
Would you even know how to navigate life on your own? ”
“This isn’t about me. I’m happy. You’re not.”
“Who says I’m not happy?” I snap back, more defensively than I wanted to.
“You’re my sister. I know you. You’ve always dreamed of being in love. You’re the girl who picked Mom’s roses and made me scatter the petals on our driveway, so you could walk down it in that incredible dress you designed out of toilet paper. And that was only the beginning.”
I scoff. “I was a kid playing make-believe, Christy.”
“But every game you played starred you as the blushing bride. And it wasn’t only when you were little…” She pauses to clear her throat, a nervous habit she inherited from our dad. “I found the diary you kept in high school.”
“I never had a diary,” I tell her, matter-of-factly. The only writing I ever did was for school, and that was bad enough. I never would have chosen to write for fun.
“Well, maybe diary isn’t the right word. It was a journal. With drawings in it.”
My eyes go wide.
I look in the mirror, and my face is turning bright pink.
“Oh my god! You went through my things?!”
“What else was I supposed to do while my gorgeous big sister was out on dates? Your life was so much more exciting than mine.”
It breaks my heart that Christy grew up feeling insecure because of me.
While I got our mom’s features, she got our dad’s.
But even though his personality leaves a lot to be desired, there’s no denying he’s a handsome man.
And Christy—who’s taller than I am, with long auburn hair and brown eyes—is absolutely beautiful.
She just was never a blonde cheerleader.
I’ve tried telling my sister a million times that looking like Barbie isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but I still think she’d trade looks with me in a heartbeat.
That doesn’t justify her rummaging through my stuff, though.
“You had no right to look at my journal, no matter how bored you were,” I tell her. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now, anyway. I don’t even remember what was in it.”
The truth is, I know precisely what the notebook contains, because it’s right here, in my nightstand. I just don’t want Christy to know how special it is to me.
My sister clears her throat. “It was sort of like a…graphic novel. But without any words. Just drawings. Beautiful drawings, of a man and a woman meeting and falling in love. Going for walks with coffee, and cooking dinner together, and traveling around the world. You put so much time into it, Jenna—there’s no way you could have forgotten. ”
I attempt a giggle, but it sounds forced. “They were doodles. Something to pass the time when I was bored, because I couldn’t paint. Drawing was the next best thing.”
Christy sighs again. “They weren’t just doodles. They were wishes. Those drawings were everything you used to wish for?—”
“Who cares what I used to wish for?” I blurt out, tears welling in my eyes. “My wishes never came true.”
“ I care. Because you’re miserable. I can hear it in your voice. And it’s only a matter of time before?—”
“Before what ?” I sob. “Before I fall apart again, like I did after grad school? Before you and Kyle have to drive down here, and pull me out of bed, and take me back to New York with you, so you can watch me like a hawk for six months? Make sure I shower and eat? Well, you don’t have to worry about me ever inconveniencing you like that again. Once was enough.”
My sister gasps. “You could never be an inconvenience to me! I love you. So much. That’s why I worry about you. Because you scare me sometimes. Because…”
She pauses and sniffles.
“When I brought you to New York, all you did for weeks was stare at the TV and sleep. There was no light in your eyes, no joy in your smile…and do you know who you reminded me of?” She clears her throat again. “Mom.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, my voice thin and shaky.
Christy exhales deeply before she answers. “Kyle thinks Mom has depressive tendencies.”
I scoff. “Kyle’s a radiologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“Well, he did a psych rotation in med school. But come on, you don’t have to be a doctor to see it. Mom’s never been truly happy.”
“I’m not like her,” I try to argue, but it sounds more like a plea.
“You didn’t used to be. But ever since Hunter?—”
“Christy, stop. Please. I really can’t talk about Hunter right now?—”
“You never want to talk about him! That’s your problem. It’s been eight years, and you’re still not over?—”
I hang up on her.