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Chapter Thirteen
Finley
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“It’s about time yougot home.” Claire looks up from the kitchen table as soon as I enter our apartment. “You never stay out. I spent half the night fearing someone had kidnapped you.”
“I texted you,” I remind her, hanging my jacket on the coat rack next to the door before sliding off my boots.
“You never mentioned staying out until the morning.” She purses her lips, accenting how full and plump they are.
Claire is a knock out. Tall, athletic build. Long blonde hair with a slight wave. Stark green eyes. We look nothing alike, other than our eyes, the one feature we both seem to have gotten from our father.
I look just like my mom from when she was younger, before she became all strung out and started losing her hair and teeth. And I know first-hand how much Claire looks like her mom, Cathy. I’ve only met her once. She lives in Southern Illinois, a few hours from here. Claire usually goes down a few times a year to visit. She took me with her once, not long after I moved in with her. The second I walked in the door I was taken aback by how much they look alike. It was like looking at an older version of my sister.
But for all our differences, every now and again I see the similarities. Like how we both hold a pencil and how she is the only other person I’ve ever met who likes cheese on her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“I told you not to wait up,” I respond after a long pause.
“Not the same thing and you know it.” She swirls her spoon in her cereal bowl before shoveling a bite into her mouth.
“What are you, my mom now?” I wrinkle my nose and stick my tongue out as I slide past her into the kitchen.
“I’m your big sister. That makes me responsible for you.”
“You’re only six years older than me, Claire, not twenty. And I don’t need you to be responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”
“Where were you, anyway?” She turns to watch me open the refrigerator.
“I was just out.”
“Just out,” she repeats. “As in out with a guy?”
“Maybe.” I pull the jug of orange juice from the shelf before closing the door.
“Shut up!” she squeals, abandoning her cereal completely. “Tell me everything. Oh my god, is he hot? Look at you, of course he’s hot! Holy hell, did you stay the night at his place? Gahhh! You totally slept with him, didn’t you?” She hits me with questions, one after another, not giving me a chance to answer a single one.
While I know telling her about what I found out at the doctor’s office yesterday is the more pressing matter, I’m desperate to hold onto some sense of normalcy for as long as I can.
I’ve never had someone to talk to about things like this. And I can’t tell you how many times I envisioned this conversation. Meeting someone and coming home to gush about all the details with my best friend or in this case, my sister–who happens to hold both titles. So I hold onto the moment a little longer.
“At least tell me his name!” she pleads when I haven’t said a word.
I finish pouring my cup of juice before joining her at the table, sliding into the seat across from her.
“Abel.” I smile around the word. “His name is Abel.”
“Abel,” she tries it out. “I really like that name.”
“Me too,” I agree, taking a drink of my OJ.
“So, tell me everything.”
“He’s twenty-five. A musician. And I swear he’s probably the closest thing to a fictional characterI’veever met in real life. Until last night I didn’t realize people like him actually existed.”
“That good, huh?” She snorts out a laugh.
“Better.” I sigh, letting my mind wander back to the events that took place hours prior. I think about his face, his smile, those eyes, that damn dimple, and I swear my heart does this little flip flop inside my chest.
