Chapter Thirty-Three #2
“While we’re on the topic of idiots…” She trails off, lets the words hang there. “I don’t hate you. I didn’t mean that.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised she went there. “Thanks. It…seemed like you did.”
“OK, in the moment I did,” she admits. “You really piss me off at times. But I didn’t mean it overall.”
“You didn’t talk to me for two years.”
“Yeah, well, you ruined my wedding,” she fires back.
“Fair,” I concede. “Very fair.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. That we’re joking about this feels like a good sign.
She hesitates. “You said something, earlier. About how if I ever want to be sisters again. You were always my sister, Annie. How else could I have been so mad at you?”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand, and I cling to her until tears are pooling in my eyes, and in hers. That’s the thing about sisters, I guess. The love and rage both get blasted at you with full force.
She squeezes one last time, then lets go. Runs two fingers under her lashes.
“So…we’re OK?” I clarify.
“We’re OK,” she agrees.
We sit quietly, both sipping our drinks. I want to ask her to put our truce in writing. I need it to be official.
“I feel like we need closure,” I tell her. “You know how in the olden days, when people had a disagreement, they fought a duel?”
Shannon is confused. “When?”
“Just like, olden times. Ages ago! That’s how they settled things. I think we need something like that. To clear the air.”
“If you want, I could punch you?” Shannon offers.
“What? No. Why did you have that on the tip of your tongue?”
“Like a boxing match,” she clarifies. “That’s basically a duel, isn’t it?”
“Um,” I say, confused about what does and doesn’t constitute a duel, even though I’m the one who brought it up. “I’m not sure. Do you have boxing gloves?”
She shakes her head. “No. We could punch each other with oven mitts?”
The tone of her voice is so openly hopeful, I laugh. She’s had just enough wine to think this is a great idea.
Behind us, the patio door slides open, and out steps Dan. He stops short when he sees me.
“Hey, Dan,” I say, smiling. Not even his presence can ruin this moment.
“This is a surprise,” he says, not unkindly. “I didn’t know you were coming to town.”
“Unscheduled visit,” I say vaguely.
Shannon is still workshopping the problem. “What about, like…two broomsticks? That’s basically swords.”
“What are you two talking about?”
“Annie wants to have a sword fight,” Shannon tells him.
“For closure,” I clarify. “Like in the olden days.”
“I think if you used broomsticks you’d kill each other,” he says frankly. “We could probably find a couple of tree branches around here somewhere.”
It’s a testament to Dan’s tenure in the family that he doesn’t bat an eyelid at the idea.
“No. No branches. I don’t want to get my skirt dirty.”
“We don’t need to duel,” I tell them. “It was just an idea.”
“The oven gloves could work,” Shannon insists. “I think I’ve got spares somewhere.”
“Why oven gloves?” he asks.
“For boxing.” She says it like duh.
Dan snaps a finger. “I’ve got it.”
He takes off running. Not thirty seconds later he’s back, holding two inflatable tubes that say Go Tigers!
“Here,” he says, handing one to each of us. “Duel each other with these.”
“Where did you get these?”
“They’re cheering sticks,” Dan says. “From the town hockey tournament.”
Shannon is underwhelmed. “I’m not going to—”
I whack her on the shoulder. “These are perfect!”
Dan grins.
“Oh, it is on,” Shannon says, fired up now. I squeal, bouncing out of my chair.
Dan takes charge from here, arranging us across from each other on the deck.
“I’ll give you thirty seconds to whip each other senseless, and then your time is up.”
“I want a minute,” Shannon says, staring me dead in the eye.
“You have thirty seconds.”
“Is that how long duels usually last?” I ask Dan.
“That’s how long they last here.”
“Fine,” Shannon says. She straightens her shoulders. “That’s all I need. I am going to win this duel.”
“We’ll see,” I say, shaking out my arms. “I am about to duel you within an inch of your life.”
She raises the stupid cheer stick like a baseball bat. My sister is nothing if not competitive.
“Let’s duel clean, everyone,” Dan says, really stepping into his role. “I count to three, you both move at the same time. When the buzzer goes off, the duel is over. Take your positions.”
We line up facing each other, both holding our inflatable makeshift swords in our right hands.
“Three…two…one…and go!” he shouts.
We move for each other at the same time, her swing blocking mine twice before I aim lower, whacking her on the hip, which has all the impact of being lightly smacked with a beach ball.
Though I get the first hit in, she has the advantage now, and I spend the rest of the thirty seconds doubled over laughing at the absurdity of it all while she hits me on the back with a glorified air balloon.
It’s physically ineffective, but cathartic. Like we’re batting away every single irritation we’ve ever had.
“TIME!” Dan shouts, plucking the inflatables out of our hands. “Shannon wins.”
She circles the two of us, arms up in triumph. She’s Rocky Balboa in a silk blouse and a pencil skirt, taking off like a dog with the zoomies. I’m laughing so hard I’m wheezing.
“I was robbed,” I huff, dropping back into my chair.
My sister does a victory lap around the lawn, then glides back toward us, her arms still up in celebration, and jumps into Dan’s arms. He spins her and sets her back down, laughing as he does.
I can’t remember the last time I saw anything like tenderness between them, or Shannon so relaxed, like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I feel a twinge of guilt. Watching them together like this, she doesn’t seem unhappy.
Mom was right. I’m not here. I don’t see everything.
Connor was right too.
“What a rush!” Shannon declares, returning to her seat. She pulls at her shirt, trying to get air between the layer of silk and her skin underneath. “I fucking love dueling.”
Dan cracks a beer of his own and picks up a leftover hot dog.
“So what’s the deal, then?” he asks me. “Did you come all the way back here so you could duel Shannon?”
“She got fired!” Shannon hoots. “I can’t wait to tell Principal Morris.”
I point a finger at her. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“She lives the next street over, you know. I can tell her right now,” Shannon says, then stands, and shouts out: “PRINCIPAL MORRIS!”
“Whoa there,” Dan says, tugging Shannon back down to sit. “Let’s try not to get you two booked for being drunk and disorderly on a Tuesday. It won’t be good for Annie’s résumé.”
“Are you even allowed to call her Principal Morris now that she’s retired?”
“What else would I call her?” Shannon says. Her eyeliner has been migrating farther from her eyes with each glass of wine. She’s like a hot raccoon.
“Just Mrs. Morris, maybe? What’s her first name?”
“I think it’s Patricia,” Dan says.
I think about it for a second. “That feels wrong. Could it be Patty?”
“Yes!” Shannon hollers. “It’s definitely Patty!”
“…So Patricia, then,” Dan concludes. “I’m getting out of here before the cops show up. I’ll be in the basement. You two enjoy your rager.”
We do. We really, really do.
By midnight we’ve emptied the house of its alcohol and are almost falling-down drunk, cackling at ourselves and each other over every little thing one of us says.
We attempt to duel each other three more times.
I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun with Shannon, ever. I haven’t felt this light in days.
She shows me to the guest bedroom, making special note of the guest towels, which she assures me I am eligible to use, and I thank her, then ask what time she needs to get up for work in the morning.
“I should get up by seven,” she concludes. “Or at the latest, seven.”
“Ironclad logic,” I tell her.
—
Sleep mostly eludes me. As soon as I’m tucked up in bed my mind wanders back to its true interest, replaying my last conversation with Connor on a loop as if my brain is a DVD menu.
Over and over again I see his look of hurt and disappointment in my mind’s eye, and with it comes a visceral full-body cringe. I feel like I’m being electrocuted by my own shame.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to block out the images, forcing myself to think about something else, anything else.
My brain helpfully offers up an image of Connor in bed, his head propped up on his elbow as he traces a path across the freckles on my stomach.
Perfect, he’d said, dropping a kiss on the mole beside my belly button.
It’s a memory so sharp I can practically feel the ghost of his warmth.
—
It’s the sound of the coffee grinder that gets me out of bed. I can hear Shannon and Dan in the kitchen, though their voices are muffled from this far away. The room tilts when I sit up, and it takes me a minute to get my jeans on again and shuffle down the hall.
“Morning,” I croak, my voice gravelly. I pull out a chair at the breakfast bar, the legs scraping against the floor.
“She lives,” Dan says, turning around to face me. “Glad to see you survived the night.”
I give a halfhearted laugh. “Barely.”
He retrieves the milk from the fridge, pours it, leaves it on the counter.
A quick glance toward my sister confirms this is still a major pet peeve of hers—she’s always been weird about milk, living in constant expectation of it going sour.
I’ve never met someone who pours more of it down the drain.
She eyes the milk. Crosses her arms.
Oblivious, Dan packs up his bag.
Another thirty seconds. The milk is still on the counter. She can stand it no longer. She breaks.
“The milk?”
Annoyance crosses Dan’s features; I can tell the words who the fuck cares are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it, just puts the milk back. Slams the fridge shut.
“Well, I’m off,” he says, heading toward the garage. “Good to see you, Annie. Bring Connor with you next time.”
“I will,” I promise, though it’s more wishful thinking than a guarantee.
“Coffee?” Shannon asks, reaching for a mug as soon as we hear the sound of the garage closing.
“Sure.”
I have no idea what to make of these two. Was last night the anomaly, or is this? I fear I may never know. She pours the coffee, adds the milk. The carton is in and out of the fridge in seconds.
“How much did we drink last night?” I ask.
“Let’s put it this way, the recycling box is now full,” she says. “Have you texted your boyfriend yet?”
“No. Especially because he’s definitely not that anymore, if he ever was. I don’t even know what to say.”
“I’m not even sure you need to say anything,” she muses. “Just send him a picture of your tits.”
I spit my coffee back into my mug.
“What? I’m just saying, men are simple creatures. Don’t underestimate the value of a good blowjob.”
“I’ll…keep that in mind.”
“Do.” She nods. Then checks her watch. “I have to get going.”
“Thanks for last night,” I say, following her out of the kitchen. “It was really fun.”
“It was,” she says. “I’m glad you came over.”
“Me too.”
She walks me to the door, then folds me into a hug. I squeeze extra hard, hoping it tells her all the things I dare not say out loud.
I want so much for my sister to be happy. I’m so scared she isn’t. But I have to trust that she knows what she’s doing. And like Connor said: even if she doesn’t, I’ll be there.