chapter twenty-seven

JOSIE

I should have known Meredith would find a way to be pissed off at me for contacting Sophie. It had actually crossed my mind to vet it with her first, but then I thought—no, I should just be proactive, handle something on my own for once. Besides, I really didn’t expect Sophie to reply so quickly. I thought there was a very good chance she wouldn’t respond until next week, which would mean I’d get credit with Mom and Mere for reaching out to her without actually having to endure yet another emotional encounter.

Then, last night, when I got Sophie’s response, I didn’t want to bring up anything heavy when Meredith and I were having such a good time, joking and laughing and bonding. It felt so nice and natural—the way I see so many other sisters getting along. I just wanted to savor it, especially given the dread I felt over my impending confession and the very real possibility that Meredith will never forgive me for my role in Daniel’s accident.

But of course my strategy backfired, and as we walk through the park, I watch her do a complete one-eighty, her mood going from cheerful to dour in record time.

“All right,” she briskly announces. “I’m ready to head home.”

“Now?” I say, thinking that I wanted to shop a bit more on the way back.

“Yeah. But you don’t have to come with me,” she says, slipping into full-on passive-aggressiveness. “You know your way.”

I shake my head, knowing she will only hold that against me, too, and can practically script her rant. How can you go shopping at a time like this?

And really, she’d be right. That magical Manhattan feeling quickly dissipates as I process that I now have not one, but two big things to dread. “No, I’ll go back with you,” I insist.

She nods, quickening her pace as we head west through the park, the opposite direction from which we came.

“Why are we going this way?” I ask, practically jogging to keep up.

“This is the way to the subway.”

“Oh. You don’t want to walk back?”

“No. I want to take the subway.”

“Well, all righty, then,” I mumble.

A silent, sullen fifteen-minute journey later, we enter the subway station at Fifty-Seventh and Seventh, dipping underground, then standing in more silence on the dank platform.

“Look,” I finally say, mouth-breathing to avoid the stench of urine and garbage. “We really don’t have to see Sophie tonight. We can tell her we have plans. We can tell her we’ll do it another time….”

“No. It’s fine,” she says—which, with Meredith, means it’s not fine, but she’s going to play the martyr.

“So you want to go?” I confirm.

“I said yes. It’s fine.”

I look at her, frustration welling inside me. “I just don’t see why you’re so mad at me,” I say, as a train roars toward us.

“I’m not mad,” she shouts back at me over the vibrating clamor of metal on metal.

“Okay. What are you, then?” I ask, as the train screeches to a halt and we board a mostly empty car. She waits for me to sit, then chooses a seat diagonally across from me. “What are you then?” I repeat.

When she still doesn’t answer, I offer her a multiple choice. “Upset? Annoyed? Frustrated?”

“All of the above,” she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Why?” I say, genuinely wanting to know. “I just don’t see why.”

“Well, for starters, let’s back up here….I’ve been trying to get you to go to the cemetery forever—Mom, too—and you finally go when I’m out of town and you don’t even tell Mom you’re going….”

“It was a last-minute thing,” I tell her.

“But that’s even worse,” she says. “You go on a whim? Without us?”

I let out a weary sigh, then try to explain. “I was at your house, spending time with your daughter because your husband lost Rabby….”

“So?” she says. “And your point is…?”

“My point is…it just came up….Nolan asked me to go with him….I wanted to say no, but I felt sorry for him, you know, with everything going on….So I said yes….How can you be pissed at me for that?”

Meredith doesn’t answer the question, just stares at me, then presses on to her next point. “Second of all, I specifically told you that Mom and I wanted to plan something for this December…for the fifteen-year anniversary.”

I once again wince at her use of anniversary in this context.

“And then you pull this stunt,” she says. “This was supposed to be about you and me and Mom doing something together. In Daniel’s memory.”

“Well, we’re together now,” I say.

“I know, but Mom’s not here, and, shit, Josie,” she says, throwing her hands up, then letting them fall back onto her lap. “Don’t you get my point? At all? That we always do things your way…on your terms?”

“Yes, I get that it might seem like that….But things change….Neither one of us thought you were going to take a leave from work and flee to New York and plan a divorce—”

“Can we please leave Nolan and my marriage out of this?”

“Fine,” I say, catching an older woman staring at us. I slide down a couple feet, so I’m directly across from Meredith, then lean forward, lowering my voice. “But I think it’s all related.”

She shakes her head and says, “No, it’s not all related.”

“Yes. It is,” I insist, my heart now racing. “It all goes back to Daniel. Don’t you see that?…Nolan…your marriage…Sophie…” I nearly blurt out my confession right there on the subway, just to get it over with, and win the debate. Show her just how much it’s all so fucking interrelated. But she is now glaring at me with such animosity that I back down, afraid. “My issues, too,” I simply say. “And I really want to sort those things out before I have a baby…before I become a mother.”

“Exactly!” she says, raising her voice and pointing at me, just like the lawyer that she is. I stare back at her, wondering what point she thinks I’ve just made for her.

“What?” I say. “Is there something wrong with that? God, Mere. Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you,” she says, giving me a look like she does. “I’m just sick and tired of everything revolving around you. Your timing. Your plans. It’s always about you, Josie.”

My cheeks on fire, I say, “That’s so unfair….I came here to see you, Meredith—and to make sure you’re okay. I was really hoping to work on our relationship—which is why I didn’t want to spoil our good mood last night with anything serious.”

She starts to speak, but I hold my hand in the air, determined to make my last point. “And I also came here because I need to talk to you about Daniel.”

“Yeah. You keep saying that,” she says, shaking her head. “When’s that conversation going to happen, anyway?”

“Tonight,” I say, knowing that things are about to get much, much worse between my sister and me.

WHEN WE GET back to Ellen’s, I text Sophie, telling her that we would love to meet up with her tonight. She quickly writes back, suggesting we come to her place on the Upper West Side for a drink before dinner and she’ll make a reservation somewhere casual.

In the hours that follow, Meredith and I both react to the stress of our plan in our typical ways: she changes into workout clothes and announces that she’s going for a long run. I change into sweats, crawl back into bed, and fall into a deep sleep.

I awaken sometime later to my vibrating phone, feeling disoriented, and even more so when I see Pete’s name. I suddenly remember where I am, as I answer with a groggy hello.

“Hi, you,” he says, his voice chipper. “Were you asleep?”

“No,” I fib, wondering why I always deny being asleep or drunk.

He asks me what’s going on, and I tell him I’m in New York, visiting my sister. I haven’t spoken to him in a few days, and have yet to tell him about my decision to use Gabe as my donor. I feel bad, having gone so far down this path with Pete, especially given his generosity throughout. I don’t want to hurt his feelings or seem mercurial. But these factors just can’t override the bigger picture. Contrary to what Meredith might think, I have no illusions about how serious this undertaking is, that we are talking about a child’s life here. Anyway, Pete might even be relieved to be off the hook. Surely, he’s had his share of doubts and second thoughts, too. But at the same time, I’m more than a little worried that it will extinguish any romantic possibility between us, and maybe even end our odd, fledgling friendship. And I have the sad, sinking feeling that I’m really going to miss him.

“Oh. Cool,” he says. “I didn’t know you were going up there.”

“Yeah. It was kind of last minute….My sister and I really need to sort some things out….” I say, as it actually crosses my mind to tell him everything. As in, everything. Instead, I stick to the broad strokes about Sophie and our plan to see her this evening.

“It’ll be the first time we’ve seen her since my brother’s funeral,” I say.

Pete whistles. “Wow. That sounds intense.”

“Yeah. It’s probably going to be pretty awkward….” My voice trails off.

“Is she married?”

I tell him I don’t know, that her Facebook page is vague. She mostly posts articles or random, funny, Seinfeldesque observations. “It looks like she has a son,” I add. “There’s one little boy on there a lot. But I guess it could be her nephew or a family friend…you know, like you and Fudge.”

“Right,” he says with a laugh. “Good ol’ Fudge.”

“So anyway…what’s going on with you?” I ask, mentally refuting Meredith’s accusation that I’m self-absorbed.

“Not much,” Pete says. “I was just kinda missing you.”

I smile, pleasantly surprised by his answer. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “I mean not a lot. But a little.”

“A little, huh?”

“Yeah. A smidge.”

“Well, I miss you a smidge, too,” I say, as I get an unexpected tingly feeling.

“Well, good,” he says. “So when’re you coming home?”

“Tomorrow,” I say. “My flight lands around five, I think.”

“You need a lift home?” he asks. “I’d be happy to come get you.”

“Aw, thanks,” I say. “That’s really sweet…but I drove.”

“Well, then…how about dinner? Monday night?”

“That’d be great. I actually wanted to talk to you about something….”

“Oh?” he says, his tone turning serious. “About?”

“Just…some things,” I say.

“You mean baby-daddy stuff? Or our kiss at Johnny’s?”

I laugh, remembering the feel of his lips on mine. “Both, actually,” I say.

TWO HOURS LATER, Meredith and I are cabbing it to the Upper West Side. I feel queasy for the obvious reasons, but also a little intimidated by the idea of dining with an accomplished, sophisticated British doctor. I can tell Meredith is uneasy, too, as she keeps checking her makeup and fiddling with her hair.

“You look great,” I say, glancing at her sideways.

Looking sheepish for being caught primping, she snaps her compact closed and stows it back in her purse, murmuring a dismissive thanks.

“At least there’re two of us. There’s only one of her….I bet she’s more nervous than we are,” I muse aloud.

“I’m not nervous,” she quickly says.

I shoot her a skeptical look and say, “C’mon, Mere. How could you not be nervous?”

“I’m just not,” she insists. “I’m a little apprehensive, maybe….I mean, she’s sort of a stranger.”

“She’s completely a stranger. We haven’t laid eyes on her since Daniel’s funeral….I don’t even think I talked to her that day.”

“You didn’t talk to anyone that day,” Meredith says with an accusatorial edge.

I ignore the dig, and ask her if we should have a signal.

“A signal for what?”

“A signal for ‘let’s get the hell outta here.’ ”

Meredith purses her lips and shakes her head, adamant. “No. No signals. We have to be warm and engaging—no matter what….We have to make a good impression…for Daniel….You know?”

It occurs to me to accuse her of being too wrapped up in appearances (which she is) or to point out that if Daniel really is up there watching us, our making a good impression on Sophie surely would be among the least of his concerns. But the last thing we need right now is another tiff, so I simply say, “Yeah. I guess so.”

A few minutes later, we arrive at Sophie’s building on Central Park West. Meredith and I get out of the cab and walk into the marble lobby of a stuffy doorman building.

“Movin’ on up!” I start singing the theme song from The Jeffersons, mesmerized by a big crystal chandelier.

Meredith hisses at me to stop it, as the doorman smiles, then asks if he may help us.

“Yes,” she replies, her voice high and prim. “Could you please tell Sophie Mitchell that Meredith and Josie are here to see her?”

He nods briskly, picks up an old-fashioned telephone, and says, “Yes. Hello, Dr. Mitchell. Meredith and Josie are here….Very well. Will do.” He hangs up, points to the elevator, and says, “Ninth floor.”

Mere thanks him, and we head that way. Once inside the elevator, we wait for both sets of doors to close—the outer, then the inner accordion-like grate—before lurching upward.

After a slow ascent, we grind to a stop, and the doors open in reverse order into a small vestibule flanked by two apartments. Before we can select the correct door, one swings open, and there stands a surprisingly faded version of Daniel’s Sophie. I’d still characterize her as attractive, in a Euro sort of way, and she is wearing a very chic jumpsuit and pointed patent flats. But she has a less-than-svelte figure and heavily sun-spotted skin.

“Hello. Come in, come in,” she says, her voice exactly as I remembered, her English accent undiluted by so many years in the States. I can tell she’s nervous as she steps forward to give us each a stiff, arm’s-length hug, in our birth order. “It’s so nice to see you both again.”

“It’s nice to see you, too,” Meredith says.

“Yes, thank you for having us over,” I add as Sophie leads us into her living room. I note that there are about a dozen places to sit, including an L-shaped sectional, two huge armchairs, and several plush ottomans, yet no television in sight. I have a sudden random recollection of her telling us that she wasn’t allowed to watch it growing up.

“You have a beautiful home,” Meredith says.

“Thank you,” Sophie says. “We just completed a renovation. This used to be the dining room…but nobody entertains that way anymore….” She laughs, then adds, “And I still can’t cook.”

I catch the we, and feel sure Meredith does, too, yet still see no signs of a husband, or a child for that matter, though I do see several framed photos of the boy from her Facebook page.

We follow Sophie into her all-white contemporary kitchen, as she asks what we’d like to drink. “A cocktail? Or a glass of wine?”

Meredith and I both say sure, we would love a glass of wine.

“Red or white?” she asks.

“Whatever you have open,” Meredith says, until Sophie insists that we choose.

“Red would be great, thanks,” I finally decide, when I notice that Sophie is drinking red. Her stemless lipstick-stained glass rests on the counter next to an artfully arranged charcuterie board. She may not be able to cook, but she certainly can entertain.

“And for you, Meredith?” Sophie asks with a charming lilt.

“Red would be lovely,” my sister says, sounding pretentious.

Sophie reaches up, plucking two glasses from her open shelving, then fills them both a little more than halfway. Meredith and I each take one as Sophie lifts hers, a smile frozen on her face. An awkward beat follows as it becomes clear that she is poised to make a toast. “To old acquaintances,” she finally says, looking into my eyes, then Meredith’s.

“To old acquaintances,” we echo. I force a smile, as I think of how contradictory the two words are, acquaintances always seeming as if they should be brand-new, either progressing to full-on friendship or falling back into obscurity. Then again, I can’t think of a more accurate categorization—so I give her a pass as we all sip our wine. An awkward lull follows, Sophie speaking first.

“So you’re a lawyer?” She looks at Meredith.

“Yes,” Meredith says. “Though I just took a sabbatical.”

I cringe at the term, wondering why she didn’t call it a “leave of absence” like she has before, as Sophie turns to me. “And you’re a teacher?” she asks.

“Yes, I teach the first grade. How did you know that? From Facebook?”

Sophie shakes her head and says, “No. Your mum told me…the last time she wrote….”

“And when was that?” I ask, uncertain of the timing or frequency of their communication, and wondering if Mom’s been in touch about a December visit.

“Oh, several years back,” she says. “Maybe two thousand ten or eleven…I can’t recall exactly. How is she doing?” Sophie’s brow furrows with concern.

“She’s fine,” I say. “She got her real estate license.”

“Mmm,” Sophie says, a British response that I’ve never been able to decipher. Does it mean “Oh, really?” or “Tell me more” or “I already knew that”?

“And I guess you heard our parents got a divorce?” I say.

Sophie drops her eyes, as she says yes, she knew that. “I’m so sorry,” she adds.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel the urge to make it worse. “Yeah. Mom couldn’t deal with Dad’s drinking. He was on the wagon until…everything fell apart.”

“Okay, then,” Meredith says in a brisk, upbeat voice. “Enough of that.”

I smile, then say to no one in particular, “Okay. Meredith says enough of that.”

“I just think we can find more cheerful things to discuss,” Meredith says under her breath.

I raise my brows, thinking, Oh? Like the last time we all saw each other, at Daniel’s funeral, perhaps?

“Anyway. She sends her best,” Meredith says, which I’m pretty sure is a lie, unless she happened to talk to Mom this afternoon while I was napping.

“Tell her I said hello, too.” Sophie smiles and nods, but can’t mask her pained, pitying look. I know it well—it was the way so many people looked at me for so long after the accident—and feel a rush of annoyance, though I know it’s not fair. How else do I expect her to look right now? And would I really want her not to feel pity?

Silently granting that she is in a lose-lose situation, I pluck a piece of ropy Serrano ham from her appetizer spread, pop it into my mouth, and change the subject. “So?” I say, still chewing. “Are you married, Sophie?”

Meredith interjects with a high, nervous laugh, then says, “Well. That’s a little direct.”

“Oh. It’s fine,” Sophie says, as I recall one of her letters to Mom about a year after Daniel’s death. It was several pages long, both front and back, and written in the most beautiful handwriting, covering every subject imaginable—from her family to her residency to her travels. But there was not one single mention of her romantic situation, only an awkward paragraph about how she still thought of Daniel “every single day.” I remember folding it back up and thinking this should be a given, hardly worth mentioning—and that this seemed to be a sign that she was seeing someone.

In any event, she seems perfectly comfortable with my question now. “I’m actually divorced. But we had a good run…almost ten years.”

“I’m sorry,” Meredith says, bowing her head.

At least he didn’t die, I think.

“Thank you,” Sophie says. “It was hard…but I’m in a good place now.”

I imagine her saying these same words to her ex-husband about Daniel and feel another irrational wave of resentment at just how adept she is at getting over big wounds.

“Do you have kids?” Meredith asks.

“Yes,” Sophie says, smiling. “I have a seven-year-old son. Calvin.”

“Oh, yes. I think I saw him on your Facebook page.”

She smiles, nods, and says, “Yes. That’s him.”

“That’s a cute name,” Meredith says, as I think that I can’t picture my brother going for a name like Calvin. But frankly, I can’t picture Daniel with Sophie at all anymore. Even when I try to adjust his age in my mind—a difficult thing to do—I just don’t see them together as she is now.

“Thank you. He’s a sweet boy,” Sophie says, perking up the way parents so often do when the subject turns to their kids. “Do you have children?”

“I have a daughter. Harper. She’s four,” Meredith replies, a look of pride flickering across her face.

“Oh. That’s a great age,” Sophie says.

Meredith nods her agreement, then says, “Josie’s planning on having a baby soon, too….”

I look at her, surprised, as Sophie asks me, “Oh? Are you pregnant?”

“No,” I say. “I’m planning to do it via donor insemination…soon.”

Sophie cocks her head to the side, giving me a look that can only be interpreted as one of respect. “That’s marvelous. Good for you,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m really excited.”

“You should be,” she says, and as we segue into a lively conversation about pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood, I wonder how long it will be before one of us finally brings up Daniel.

NEARLY AN HOUR later, we are seated in a cozy corner booth at Cafe Luxembourg, a bustling bistro where Sophie seems to be a regular. She orders another bottle of wine, which I hope will facilitate a deeper conversation. But by the time our entrées arrive at the table, Daniel’s name still has yet to be uttered. I decide that I can’t wait another moment. Searching for my opening, I find it when Meredith compliments Sophie’s wine selection.

“I’m glad you like it,” she replies. “I actually don’t know much about wine, but I’ve been to this particular vineyard.”

“You don’t know much about wine? That’s surprising….Daniel used to brag about how worldly you were….” I say, thinking that wine selection seems to fall squarely into that purview.

She smiles, then says, “I think he confused my accent with worldliness. I was actually quite green when I met Daniel.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling oddly jubilant that I finally got her to say his name.

“I was,” she insists.

I roll my eyes and laugh, but not unkindly. “C’mon, Sophie. You were a Yale medical student…and didn’t you go to Oxford and some fancy boarding school before that?”

“Yes,” she says, pushing a carrot with a tine of her fork. “But I was only a day student….”

“Oh, a day student.” I smile. “Well, that changes everything.”

Sophie laughs at herself, but then grows earnest. “Truly. I grew up in much the same way that you did. Very comfortably, but not lavishly…” She hesitates, then adds, “I loved your family home…and Atlanta is such a beautiful city. Urban in some ways, yet so green and lush…You really had an idyllic life—” She stops abruptly, looking slightly mortified. “I mean, that’s what I remember thinking when I was there….You know, with Daniel…” Her voice trails off as her face reddens and she looks down at her plate. In other words—when she visited the first time, not when she came back for the funeral.

It is so awkward that I can’t help feeling sorry for her, and reach out to touch her arm. “We know what you meant,” I say, speaking for my sister, too, as I wonder, for really the first time, about how it all unfolded for her.

“Where were you when you found out?” I say, chasing the question with a gulp of wine.

Sophie takes a measured breath, then another. “I was on my way to Royal Albert Hall with my grandmother. We were going to the Carols by Candlelight. Our little tradition…” She pauses and bites her lip, a faraway look in her eye. “My mobile rang. I saw Daniel’s name—and was so excited to hear from him….I’d been gushing about him to Gran—and had been trying to call him since I landed that morning….But it wasn’t Daniel, of course,” she says. “It was his friend…Nolan.”

My eyes still on Sophie, I nod and point to my sister. “That’s Meredith’s husband….”

Sophie looks surprised. “Is it?” she asks.

“My mom didn’t tell you that?” I ask, knowing that she must’ve, and wanting to call Sophie out on forgetting.

“Maybe she did, come to think of it,” she says, now looking at Meredith. “That’s so nice. For your family.”

I watch Meredith tense up, her eyes becoming expressionless, almost steely. “Yes. We got married and moved into our family home….” Her voice trails off.

“It really is a beautiful home,” Sophie says. “And I just love Atlanta.”

“Do you think you would have lived there?” I ask. “If you had married Daniel?”

Sophie gazes back at me, blinking. She opens her mouth, starts to answer, then stops, as if the thought has never really occurred to her, one way or the other. “I don’t know,” she says, blinking back at me.

“Well,” I press. “Do you think you would have married Daniel?”

A painful silence follows, but I refuse to speak first, unwilling to offer her an out. I am relieved that Meredith doesn’t, either.

“Oh, Josie,” Sophie finally says, her voice and expression laden with guilt. “I just don’t know the answer to that….There are so many variables.”

“Such as?” I ask.

“Such as our residencies. Whether we would have matched at the same place…then our fellowships…We were so young—and those were grueling years.”

“But did you love him?” I ask, thinking there’s really only one variable that should matter.

“Yes, I loved him, but…I just don’t know….”

Her answer, along with the uneasy look on her face, confirms my hunch. Although I appreciate her honesty, I can’t help feeling betrayed on Daniel’s behalf, and part of me is tempted to shout, How dare you not tell us that our brother was the love of your life, the best person you’ve ever known, and that you’ve never gotten over the loss?!

I glance at Meredith, and can tell in an instant that she feels the same, which is somehow reassuring. It occurs to me that as different as we are in our behavior and decisions, our most basic, knee-jerk emotional reactions to really big things are often remarkably similar. And it is in these moments that I am most grateful for my sister.

Meredith clears her throat, then picks up my interrogation where I left off, her feelings of decorum apparently having dissipated. “The night you flew back to London…right before the accident…Daniel sat in the kitchen and talked to Mom about you. Did she ever tell you about that conversation?”

Sophie shakes her head and gives a terrible answer, once again. “Maybe. I don’t recall for certain….”

My sister raises her chin and continues, her voice strong and clear. “Well, I’ll tell you what he said….He said you were the most incredible person he’d ever met—and that he wanted to marry you for a lot of reasons, including that he knew you’d be a fabulous mother.”

“Goodness. That’s so incredibly sweet,” Sophie says, finally looking mournful.

“Yes,” Meredith says. “And I think that’s why you have remained so important to our mother….You’re a connection to him….” Her voice cracks, so I finish where she left off.

“I guess we just want to know if you really and truly loved him?” I say, giving her one last chance. “That it wasn’t just some passing romance?”

Sophie shivers, pulling her cashmere wrap more tightly around her shoulders, taking her time answering. “Yes, I did love him….It’s just hard….It’s hard for me to really remember that time….So much life has happened since….”

“Yes. For everyone but Daniel,” I say, wanting to shame her.

It seems to work as she nods and adjusts her wrap again. Deep down, I know I’m not being fair. It’s not Sophie’s fault that Daniel died and she lived. I can also tell that she is trying her best. It just so happens that her best sort of sucks. So I attempt one last angle. “Was your ex-husband much like Daniel?” I ask.

It feels like a softball, given that the marriage ended. An easy way for her to tell us how much better Daniel was.

“In some ways,” she says. “But not really.”

“Is he American? A doctor?” Meredith asks.

“Yes. And yes,” Sophie says. “But he’s not a surgeon like Daniel wanted to be.”

“What is he?”

“A dermatologist,” she says. “And the stereotypes of those specialties really fit. He’s much less intense than Daniel was…more outgoing….Daniel was smarter….”

I nod, thinking, Damn right he was.

She shrugs, then finishes. “I don’t know….They’re very different people.”

“Was he jealous of Daniel?” I ask, instantly realizing how ridiculous the question sounds. “I mean, of your relationship?”

“No. Todd’s not wired like that. He doesn’t really get jealous….He’s not the sensitive type. Hence…our divorce, perhaps.” She laughs nervously. “My boyfriend before Todd was more jealous, I think….”

“Of how much you loved Daniel?”

“Yes,” she says.

Finally, I think, a satisfying answer.

“Are you dating anyone now?” Meredith asks.

I take a final bite of my filet, only mildly curious about Sophie’s answer, and for some reason fully expecting it to be no. But when I look up, I watch her face come to life, even more so than when we asked about Calvin. She tells us yes, there is someone.

“Is he a doctor, too?” Meredith says.

“She,” Sophie says. “And no, she’s a writer.”

She goes on to eagerly explain how they met—at some yoga retreat in Arizona—but I mostly tune her out, exchanging a glance with Meredith. It is a fleeting one, but I am now positive we feel the same. That we’re totally over this evening and Sophie, and especially her love for someone who isn’t our brother, whether a man or a woman.

Sure enough, during the next pause in the conversation, Meredith cranes her neck to signal the waitress for our bill, then presses her palm to her lips in what I can tell is a completely fake yawn.

“Oh, listen to me,” Sophie says, still smiling. “I’m so sorry for prattling on like this.”

“It’s fine,” Meredith says. “We’re really happy for you. Right, Josie?”

“Yes. Of course,” I say. “Very happy for you.”

“But it is getting late…and Josie has an early flight,” Mere lies.

“Yes. A very early flight,” I say, locking eyes with my sister, unable to think of a single time I have loved her more.