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She sets her cup down. ‘I guess now we pretend I wasn’t cut out of your life and just go back to being sisters.’
I blink. ‘I didn’t cut you out of my life. I was fifteen when you left. What was I supposed to do?’
She swallows and looks away. ‘I guess I could clear out my studio if you need a place to stay short-term.’
I love the addition of ‘short-term’. With a subtle roll of my eyes, I take my empty cup to the sink. ‘I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your art.’
‘Well, you can’t stay at the hostel.’
‘Why not? They’re a lot more welcoming there.’
We realise at the same time that we’re standing too close to each other, and we both take a step back.
She looks up at the roof and draws a long breath. ‘You can stay here.’
I note the softening of her tone. ‘Okay.’
Her eyes return to me. ‘I really hope you’ve thought this through. What will you do for work?’
‘Actually, I got a job at a pub in the city. I start tomorrow.’
Bridget suppresses a smile. ‘At a pub? How on earth did you get a job at a pub?’ She waves a hand. ‘You know what? Never mind. It’s really none of my business.’ She picks up her car keys, then turns to me, clearing her throat. ‘Also… it’s my birthday tomorrow.’
Naturally, I’d forgotten this. Remembering has always been futile. ‘Okay.’
She appears uncomfortable. ‘I’m having people over.’
‘Oh.’ This is new. ‘Like a birthday party?’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘More of a barbeque.’
‘So a birthday barbeque?’
She scrunches her nose up. ‘I guess if you have to give it a name.’
Now we’re both uncomfortable. ‘Do you want me out of the apartment for it?’
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘Unless you’d prefer to not be here. I don’t want it to be awkward. It’s a big leap from recently baptised to birthday parties.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t a party.’
She presses her lips together and lifts her chin. ‘You should also know that I eat the Easter eggs people give me now.’
It feels a lot like she’s testing me. ‘Even the creme ones that look like real egg yolk?’
She scowls. ‘Of course not. I’m not a complete Satan worshipper.’
We watch each other for a moment, like we’re daring the other to smile.
‘Do you put a Christmas tree up?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘No tree. No turkey. No lights. No carols—except Mariah Carey.’
I’m relieved to hear that with Christmas being a few weeks away. It would be a lot and too soon. ‘Then what do you do on Christmas Day?’
‘Last year I painted on the terrace and ate tuna from a tin because I forgot all the shops are closed.’
The corners of my mouth lift.
Bridget jingles her keys. ‘Let’s go get your things before one of us changes our mind.’
