“Promise?” Calla is
hesitant, her red hair standing out like fire against my white curtains. She almost always accepts my word, but this time, she knows me. She knows I’m lying.
“Repromissionem,” I assure her. She rolls her eyes.
“You know, sometimes, Latin just complicates things. That took you five syllables to say what you could’ve said in two.”
I smile and shrug. “It’s a dignified language. It has character.”
“If by dignified, you mean dead, ok.”
She laughs and I pretend to, because honestly we’re shells anyway, medicated or not. We’re not the people we used to be. We just look like it on the outside.
We clatter down the creaky steps of our house, bickering back and forth, doing our best to seem normal because mom always said fake it ‘til you make it. We’re definitely doing our part.
As we round the corner into the large, elaborate foyer, the distinct roar of a motorcycle splits apart the serene atmosphere of the funeral home. We stare at each other.
We don’t typically get mourners on motorcycles this far up the mountain.
Dad steps past us, eyeing Calla curiously.
“Thanks for referring someone to me for the carriage house. I wasn’t expecting your help with that, considering how much you wanted it for yourself.”
Calla stops still, frozen in place, while she stares at dad.
“He called?”
He?
Her voice is filled with anxiety and happiness and hope. I stare at her. What the hell is this?
Dad nods. “Yeah. This morning. That’ll be him now, to look at it.”
Calla spins around and stares out the window, and I look over her shoulder.
A black, aggressive motorcycle, a Triumph, is parked on the circular drive, as a tall dark-haired guy stands in front of it, removing his black helmet.
Calla is so absorbed in watching him that she doesn’t realize how closely I’m watching her.
She smiles a beatific smile. “It’s been days since I told him about it. I thought he didn’t want it.”
My dad raises his eyebrow. “He still might not. He’s just here to look at it. Really quick—how did you meet him?”
She pauses. “I met him in the café at the hospital the other day. I’ve bumped into him a couple of other times. He’s been there visiting someone. He seems nice.”
Nice.
Dad doesn’t push her because the guy is already walking up the porch steps. “Excuse me while I go show him around.”
I don’t bother to ask her who the hell this guy is, or why she chose to invite him into our life by renting out the apartment that both she and I wanted for ourselves. I don’t have to ask. I can see it written all over her face.
She’s glowing as she looks at him, an expression I’ve never seen on her face. She’s interested in him. Very interested.
Apprehension builds in my belly as I watch my father shake his hand, as they walk side by side down to the carriage house.
The guy looks decent enough, but there’s something about him. Something unsettling, separate from the way my sister is staring at him in rapt fascination.
GetRidOfHimGetRidOfHimGetRidOfHim.