So I say nothing.
Sophie reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers.
“Maybe Toronto is still right,” she says. “Maybe Mark was just this intense, beautiful weekend you’ll think aboutfor years when you’re drunk or lonely or pretending you’re neither.”
My throat works once.
“And maybe,” she continues, “he isn’t.”
My chest aches.
“That is deeply unhelpful.”
“I know.”
She squeezes my hand.
“I’m your sister. I’m contractually obliged to be irritating and correct.”
My lips twitch.
It doesn’t last.
Sophie’s gaze stays on mine.
“Just don’t make safe choices and call them brave ones.”
The sentence hits harder than I want it to.
From the living room, Matty shouts, “Babe, have we got any more crisps?”
Sophie closes her eyes.
For one second all the exhaustion she usually hides is right there on her face.
Then she stands.
“In the cupboard,” she calls.
“They’re not there.”
“They are.”
A pause.
“Oh. Yeah.”
She glances at me and gives the smallest shrug.
See?
She doesn’t say it.
She doesn’t need to.
My attention drops to my tea.
To my hand where hers had been.
