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Sloane: I’ve unpacked my last bag.
Ari: So I guess you’re not going to take o , huh.
Sloane: Not today. . . I might start looking at apartments sooner than I thought, though. I just got o the most surprising call with my sister.
Ari: The one you never speak to?
Sloane: The one and only. I have a sneaking suspicion Dr.
Lerner sent her some kind of anonymous message.
Ari: What??? LOL Why??
Sloane: She’s looking to open her own hedge fund and might do it in Miami. All of a sudden she gives a shit about sharing caregiver duties to avoid burnout and fatigue. . . I’m still not even sure what the hell happened.
Ari: Wow! That’s huge! I wonder what changed.
Sloane: I really don’t know. I can’t even remember the last time she was here, but she’s the golden child. If there’s anyone that can get my mother to push further, it’s her. She even sounded human on the phone. Idk. Maybe she found out she has a year to live and wants to make amends to save her soul.
Ari: OMG don’t say that. That’s terrible.
Sloane: I guess I don’t really care why as long as it really happens. She’s pretty good about doing what she says she’s going to do, so I guess I’ll hear more about it at Thanksgiving.
Ari: This really is great news. I’m happy things are moving in the right direction.
Ari wanted to say more, but everything she typed sounded too mushy and dramatic.
“Tell her we want to see what she looks like,” her dad blurted as he got up during a commercial break.
“Oh, yes. Call her on the video chats!” her mom agreed excitedly. “Gimme the phone, I’ll tell her.”
“No!” Ari shrieked, holding her phone to her chest. “I’ll ask her for the picture, but don’t get out of your recliner.”
Ari: I don’t know how to say this very embarrassing thing . . .
my parents REALLY want to see what you look like.
Sloane: FaceTime me. I’m great with parents. They love me.
Ari: What? No!
The loud, tell-tale ring of a video call crashed through the living room, sending her mom scrambling to mute the TV.
“Answer it or she’ll think we’re rude!” her dad yelled from the kitchen over the rush of the faucet.
In Ari’s indecision, her mom snatched her phone out of her hand. She watched in horrified slow motion as she pressed the green button. Oh, God.
“Sloane! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Irma, Ari’s mom,”
she said, tucking a strand of short salt and pepper hair behind her ear and smoothing the rest of it down. “This is my husband, Ari’s dad,” she continued, walking into the kitchen.
Ari stayed rooted to the ground in the living room. This was happening and she couldn’t stop it.
“Hey, Sloane! I’m Camilo.” He dried his hands on a threadbare dishrag before squishing his face next to her mom’s like they were squeezing into a tiny photo booth.
Sounds and images floated toward Ari, but her ability to process was spotty. When her dad took the phone to show o Ari’s enormous, ornately framed, fifteenth birthday picture of her dressed in a hoop-skirt gown, Ari sprang forward.
Sloane was not going to see her looking like a pink frosting cake topper.
