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“Is he straight?”
“As far as I know. ”
“Then he cares, sweetie. You don’t have any idea how sexy you are, do you?”
Bryn laughed, and it sounded a little wild, a little despairing. “I am so very far from sexy right now, Annie. And how did we get on this subject again?”
“Because you wouldn’t discuss dinner?”
“Well, I’ll discuss it now. I don’t have much time, though. I’m sorry, but I have to go out tonight. An appointment. I need to be there by eight thirty. ”
“Cool. ” Annie squeezed her and let go. “We can go out tomorrow night. I made bruschetta and pasta primavera; I walked over to the store and stocked your fridge. You’ll love it. ”
And Bryn did. For the first time in a long time—since before that awful moment when her whole life had ended and restarted—she tasted food, really tasted it. Crisp, nutty bread, fresh chopped tomato, basil, garlic, balsamic vinegar, oil … and the pasta, perfectly cooked al dente. Annie offered wine, but Bryn refused, on the grounds of driving. They talked. They laughed. They mocked each other. They did dishes and splashed each other, half out of spite, half out of joy.
Sisters.
Bryn felt the darkness and horror slip away, just for a while.
It all passed in far too short a time. By eight, they were sitting on the couch again, and Annie was flipping channels on Bryn’s TV. “What time do you think you’ll be back?” she asked. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders. She’d showered, and her hair had fallen into golden brown ringlets, perfectly shaped. When Bryn was ten and Annie was eight, Bryn had given her sister a deliberately awful haircut with a pair of safety scissors out of sheer envy—and in truth, she still hadn’t quite gotten over coveting those curls.
“Why? You going to wait up?”
“Are you going out on a date?”
“I wish. No. ”
“Are you going to be draining body fluids out of some poor dead person?”
“No, and God, you are morbid. ”
“Me? You’re the one with the job in the death business. ” Annie made air quotes around it. “I’m sorry, and I don’t want to judge, but it just seems really weird to me. ”
“It’s not weird. It’s …” Bryn remembered Riley’s words, back in the prep room. “It’s something sacred, in a way. We’re the last people to touch someone in this world, and that’s important. We’re all going there, in the end. Wouldn’t you like there to be someone there to care for you?”
Annie turned toward her, eyes wide. She didn’t speak. Finally, she settled against the cushions and refocused her attention on the TV. “So you don’t know when you’ll be back. ”
“God, Annie, are you planning on throwing a party while I’m gone? No, I don’t know. A couple of hours, probably. Stop questioning me. ”
“You always ask me these things. ”
“I’m your older sister. I’m supposed to. ”
“So who are you meeting? Your mystery man?” Annie nudged her with her shoulder. Bryn nudged back, harder.
“None of your business. ”
“Oh, come on. If I’ve never met him, what does it matter?”
“He’s … complicated,” Bryn said slowly. “And very … complicated. ”
“You are the worst. Okay, just answer this. Is he hot?”
“I don’t know. ” She didn‘t, honestly. He was; then he wasn‘t. She didn’t know how to view Patrick McCallister objectively at all. “I suppose so. ”
“What’s his best feature?”
Annie probably wanted her to say his ass, or his abs, or his eyes, or something like that, but Bryn thought for a second and said, “His certainty. ”
