July 3, Friday
ELAINE HAD texted me a single word that morning—SHOPPING—followed by a location pin to the mall, which from my sister is less an invitation than a summons. Elaine doesn't ask. Elaine deploys.
"I got the promotion," she announced before I'd even gotten both feet inside Macy's. "Regional VP."
"Elaine, that's amazing." And it was. I squeezed her into a hug.
My little sister, thirty-seven, single, childless, and now apparently in charge of an eye-popping number of zeros at the largest bank in the South.
She practically vibrated with the kind of happiness that comes from a job that texts you accolades instead of, say, a reprimand for a permission slip you forgot to sign.
"Thank you. Speaking of the bank—did you ever send in that application like I told you to?"
I gave her a bright smile. "I did. And I got back a polite response. 'We've decided to move forward with other candidates.'"
"That was AI-generated. Let me put in a word—"
"Elaine, no. Thanks, but I want to get something on my own. Even if it takes a while."
She studied me for a few seconds, then let it go. "Fine. But you should come on the cruise with me and my friends. We can bunk together like when we were kids. There's a swim-up bar shaped like a pirate ship. I saw a video."
"Elaine. I have two teenagers."
"Who are sixteen and fourteen, and who will survive seven days of microwaving their own Hot Pockets. And they have a father, don't they?"
"Their father can't even remember which kid plays soccer."
"Then maybe," Elaine said in a sing-song voice, holding up a sundress against herself in the mirror, "it would be educational for him to find out."
I had a brief, vivid fantasy of Warren attempting to operate our washing machine and decided not to dwell on it. "Anyway, I can't plan anything. I have jury duty Monday."
Elaine made a noise like a tire losing air.
"Oh, please. You know how that goes. You fight traffic downtown, circle the garage forty times looking for parking, then sit in a hot room with a thousand smelly strangers for six hours until some clerk comes out and says everyone can go home because the lawyers worked out a plea deal.
It's a complete and total waste of time. "
"Probably," I said. "But it'll be nice to have somewhere to be that isn't the grocery store."
"That," Elaine said, "is the saddest sentence I've ever heard."
She pulled a dress off the rack. Deep green, soft fabric, the kind of cut that suggested a person with somewhere to be. "This would look great on you."
I protested, but she grabbed two dresses for herself and hauled me to the dressing room.
I knew it was magic as soon as I pulled it over my head and it floated down my Mom bod. For a few disorienting seconds, I didn't recognize the woman looking back—mostly because she wasn't wearing capris.
"It's gorgeous," I admitted. "But I can't right now. It's not in the budget."
"I thought you said Warren got a new car."
"He did, but I'm sure he got a deep discount on it."
"So? It's not right that your ex is driving around in a hella expensive sports car and you're wearing clothes from Sears."
"I miss Sears."
Elaine appeared in the mirror behind me, arms crossed, doing her VP face. "You cannot spend the rest of your life dressed like you're a chaperone on a field trip. You're allowed to want things."
"But—"
"It's on sale," she said, already heading for the register with it. "Forty percent off. I'm basically saving money by buying it for you."
"That's not how—"
"Don't ruin this for me."
I let her. Arguing with Elaine in a department store is its own kind of exhausting cardio.
But later, walking out with that bag swinging against my leg, I felt a little giddy.