Madly (New York 2)

“You look really nice today,” she tried instead. It was true, but not unusual. May had flawless skin, beautiful eyes, and the kind of T&A that meant she’d looked bangable in everything, at every weight, since she hit puberty. Today she looked casually New York cool in a belted floral circle skirt, a strappy cotton tank, and a scarf. May dressed more adventurously since she’d hooked up with Ben.

“You look like you belong in a whorehouse a hundred years ago.”

“It’s my Mata Hari outfit,” Allie said. “You know Mata Hari? She was this exotic dancer who was a spy in France during the First World War. She got executed and everything.”

“Charming.”

“She was a courtesan, too, although before that she had a husband. He was this rich Dutch dude who beat her.”

“Allie.”

“And he gave her syphilis, which eventually killed her kids.”

She needed to stop. Whenever May frowned at her, Allie got caught up in the verbal equivalent of the love-me twirl, a compulsive urge to present her sister with all the shiniest and most interesting things she could think of to say, in the hope that May would be excited, stunned, and somehow filled with love again.

“There’s a rug at a museum in Europe that someone embroidered with all the steps of her fan dance. I want to buy a rug like that. A dancing rug.”

May sighed.

Allie made herself drink half her water and look around the restaurant again. It was packed, and the service was glacial. Ben wasn’t having any trouble filling tables with diners willing to shell out twenty bucks for eggs and chorizo drizzled with rooftop-bee honey, but the vibe wasn’t exactly happy and satisfied. There were a lot of empty water glasses and a long wait at the hostess station to pay the bill.

She could imagine the tension Ben must feel whenever he looked out at this dining room. She knew what it was to have a vision and watch it become a reality, all the while knowing it might not survive its own birth.

The dazzle-and-twirl only ever got her so far, and never far enough with the people who loved her most. Sisters, for example, were largely immune to dazzle. They asked for harder stuff, like honesty, integrity, trust.

“Thanks for coming,” Allie said.

“Yeah, well, we couldn’t leave things like we did.”

“Are you really mad at me?”

“Yes.” May refolded her hands on the table. She wouldn’t look at Allie. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

The waitress took their order. In tribute to Ben, Allie settled on the eggs Benedict that contained the largest number of foods she couldn’t identify. May ordered lemon ricotta pancakes that Allie was pretty sure weren’t on the menu.

It seemed unlikely she’d be able to eat. She was so jacked up over sitting across from her sister that her extremities felt buzzy and light. She reached for her water glass slowly in order to keep from knocking it over in a flail of limbs. “It would be so great if we could skip this whole breakfast and fast-forward to the part where everything is fixed.”

The lines on either side of May’s mouth deepened. “Unfortunately, that’s not a real thing.”

“I know it’s not.”

“Do you?”

/> Oh, jeez, she sounded so mean. Allie hated this version of her sister—the May who was hurt, and mad, and self-righteous. The May who she couldn’t make laugh, who didn’t soften due to begging, who wouldn’t care if she threw herself on the floor and wept.

This May always insisted that she do the most impossible things.

Like explain.

Apologize.

Tell the truth.

There was no actual way around her sister when she was in this mood, and Allie knew it, had known it all along, which was exactly, exactly, why she’d been avoiding having this conversation with May for almost a decade.