Robin’s thin frame appears in the doorway of her bedroom. She’s looking out at me through slatted eyes. “Skye? You okay?”

“I’m fine!” I tell her, but my voice is too loud and she flinches. “Sorry,” I say, keeping it just above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she says. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“How much wine is left in that bottle?”

“Most of it.” I hold up the bottle, and only then do I notice that there’s about a quarter of it left. “Some of it. That doesn’t mean I’m drunk.”

She makes her way slowly into the living room, and it breaks my heart. Maybe it breaks my heart a little more than usual because of the wine, but it aches for her nonetheless. We don't have the money for specialty doctors who can help her with the migraines. I'm trying to get us better insurance, but I need to be at Hunter Housing at least three months before that kicks in. If she can just make it...

Robin flops down on the couch next to me and closes her eyes. I'm already fumbling for the TV remote and clicking it off. We sit there in the semi-darkness in our falling-down apartment building. She's just opened her mouth to say something to me when the tracks next to the back window start rumbling. No point in saying anything now. We'll have to wait for the train to pass.

I watch my sister try to relax her body, try to relax through the sound, but it's got to be killing her. In the dim light, she looks pale and washed out by the time the train is past and a relative quiet settles in around our apartment. 

“What's the occasion?” She finally says softly. We could be a mirror image of each other, with the same dark hair and green eyes, only she's losing weight faster than I can get food into her. Her pain is just too much.

I shake my head, choosing my words carefully. Maybe I am a little drunk. “I made a fool of myself today.”

“I'm sure you didn't. At the coffee shop?”

Once a week, I treat myself at the coffee shop around the corner from the Hunter Housing offices. “No. It's only Thursday.” Do I really want to tell her? If I tell another person, then it means it really happened, that conversation between Mr. Hunter and me. But I can tell that Robin is desperate for news from the outside. The television can set her off, and so can the radio. Reading is all she can do, but sometimes the tiny screen of her phone is too much. And newspapers won't tell you anything about my insanely sexy boss. Well, not what you really want to know. I sigh. “I did something stupid at work.”

Her eyes light up, even in the darkness. “Tell me!” Then she closes them again and settles back into the couch. “Tell me, Skye.”

I'm just buzzed enough from the wine that I don't hesitate any longer. I tell my sister everything—what I heard from outside Mr. Hunter's office, and the way I knew instantly that it would be the solution to everyone's problems. I tell her that I've been lusting after him for weeks. I tell her that even if he doesn’t want to have an actual baby with me, there’s nothing wrong with faking the entire thing. We could make it pretty realistic.

She laughs. “I'm not surprised. I've seen pictures of him.”

“The pictures of him are nothing compared to the way he looks in real life,” I tell her, sinking into my thoughts. “And he smells like—”

There's a knock at the door that startles the shit out of me so badly that I gasp out loud. Both of us tense, our heads whipping toward the door. A strange electricity shoots down my spine, and I look back into Robin's wide eyes. For an instant, it feels like it did back when we were younger, and every knock at the door might be our mom. 

It never was.

The knock comes again, but neither of us moves. There's always a sweet anticipation of a knock on the door, and both of us hate when it ends. I know she hates it as much as I do. I'd rather cling to that hope than actually get up and reveal the delivery man or the door-to-door salesman on the other side. In this minute, at least, it could be our mother. It could be anyone. It could be the answer to all my prayers.

A third knock, and then a man's voice. “Ms. Dawson?”

Robin's mouth forms a perfect, round O. I've told her how Mr. Hunter insists on calling me Ms. Dawson.

It's him. It has to be him.

I leap up off the couch, putting the wine bottle down on the side table with a clatter. “Oh, shit,” I hiss at Robin. “Look at me! Oh, my God, I—” I cast about frantically like a skirt suit is going to be magically at hand. There's nothing here. I'm stuck in my lounge shorts and a tank top. Oh, fuck. Is he going to be mad at me? On my first day on the job, Mr. Hunter made it very clear that I was his representative to anyone who came into the office, and it was essential that I always present a professional face. I'm a shambles right now.

“Skye,” Robin says, laughter in her eyes. “You're not at work. Answer the door!”

“What do I do? What do I say?” 

“Say hello,” she says with a little shrug, a smile playing over her lips. “You never know. Maybe he's here because he wants to reconsider that deal.”

“I cannot have his baby, no matter what he says.” Then it hits me, what she's just said. “You think I should have his baby?”

More knocking. He's going to give up soon, if he hasn't already.

“I think you should do whatever you want.” Robin cocks her head toward the front door. “But first, you should definitely open that door.” She laughs a little. “Don't let him in, though. I'm a mess.”