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I learned that when we were kids.
She argues.
She fights.
Nothing’s easy, nothing’s fun. She likes to be at war with the world. And, I suppose in that way, we’re a bit alike. I like to fight battles too, especially when I know I can win.
We’re both strong-willed. That’s the problem. And we’ve butted heads for so long, I don’t think either of us knows how to have a conversation without doing so.
Though we butt heads like rambunctious goats, I’m not immune to feeling sorry for her. When she bites her lip and looks down to fiddle with the zipper on her leather jacket, I can tell that this ‘big’ struggle of hers is weighing on her.
“Oh, yeah? What is it—” I bite back ‘this time’ and instead leave the question there.
“I’m—well, I guess it’s not a secret anymore, so… I’m—I’m pregnant.”
Fear for my sister’s well-being ricochets through me. “With that loser’s kid?”
“Sawyer is not a loser,” she seethes, eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you been listening to me at all? He’s unique. And I love him.” Then, she storms past me, shoving me in the arm as she goes. “I don’t care what you think, anyway. You wouldn’t know anything about love, anyway, unless it’s your own image you’re gazing at, starry-eyed.”
It’s a relief when she walks back out the door.
I get a minute to myself to think.
She’s unmarried and pregnant.
Wild, troubled, stubborn Kate.
How is she going to manage becoming a single mom?
Minutes later, she returns, this time with a big bin in her arms. She lowers it down to the floor, pulls off the lid, and tips it so it’s on its side.
“I get these from the tennis center near my place,” she says, as tennis balls pour out of the bin. “They give them to me once they’ve lost their bounce. I have hundreds more at home.”
Tennis balls continue to spill out.
Too many to count.
They roll all over my pristine floor, swarm toward the trim boards, and nestle under the few pieces of purposefully placed furniture.
My skin crawls.
I groan again. “Kate…”
“There. Now this place looks a little less like a freaking museum.” She looks around the space, pleased with herself. “Lived in. Homey.”
Then she walks to the dogs, who have piled together on one of the dirty beds. I hear her murmuring to them, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
All I can think about is the swarm of tennis balls at my feet, the fur and dust swirling in the air, and the little puddles of slobber that are already smeared across the floor.
And, her situation: Pregnant.
No ring on her finger.
Is this Sawyer dude in Alaska? Is that what she said?
I can’t believe this is happening. I rub my temples as she finishes off her conversation with the dogs.
Is she really about to leave them here?
