“How was your day?” I sit on the chrome barstool at the kitchen counter and pry off my sneakers, letting each one drop with a thud. “You got in late last night. How was the photo shoot? Where did you go again?”
Chase is in marketing for our local ski hill, Powderkeg. More often than not, he’s the face of all the promotional advertising—the billboards, the website, the commercials—but I can never keep up with which west coast ski resort he’s filming in, or when. Most of his work is November through April, but there’s always the odd shoot in the summer months to preempt the new season. It’s nice to have him around more at this time of year, though. He helps a lot with meal planning.
“We just did some promo shots for next year.” He inspects the wine bottle vaguely. “Inside-outside stuff in Breckenridge. They turned out great. They took a lot of head-and-shoulders shots of me, and the director was really happy.”
“Of course he was. Are you going away again over the summer?”
“No, that should be it now.” Chase cracks the wine and pours a generous portion, sliding the glass across to me. “Downtime.”
“Good,” I say. “I miss you when you’re gone.”
He reaches across the countertop to hold my hand, but I withdraw it—I haven’t had a chance to wash properly yet. If I told him what I’d touched today, he’d be horrified.
His smile falters. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head. “I have to take a shower first. I have to get this day off my skin.”
“Oh,” he says. There’s a second where I imagine him taking the expensive wineglass back. “I’ve made a new turkey and quinoa dish. It’s paleo. Full of good proteins. But we can hold off. We can eat in, say, twenty or so.” He picks up his knife and begins dicing again, the knife easily severing the tomato’s skin.
“That’d be great.” I take a sip of the crisp wine, then slide off the stool. In the bathroom, I peel off my clothes. Social work makes me want to scrub my entire body with a wire brush every day. I wonder for a moment if Sully feels that way about his job, too. After a quick shower, I head back out, toweling my hair as I enter the kitchen. Through the open bay windows, a chickadee is singing its binary song in the street. That’s when I hear a knock at the door. Chase, tea towel over one shoulder, pauses his chopping.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No, definitely not.”
I wrap the towel around my neck, then head to the front door and pull it open. I see a face more than anything, the paleness of it stark against dark hair. Long hair, familiar. Blue damaged eyes. Immediately I feel my knees might give out, like I might fall to the ground. I cover my mouth with both hands and stare.
It’s her. It’s Ruth Van Ness. My sister.
RUTH
We all live more than one lifetime in a life. I’ve always thought that. But when Alex opens the door to her fancy loft apartment, her face is still an eight-year-old’s, changed only a little to fit an adult body. She hasn’t lost the freckles or that startled look, as if she’s just been told it’s her week for show-and-tell and she’s forgotten to bring in a toy. She’s willowy and beautiful, though, dark auburn hair, long arms like a ballet dancer’s, and yet there’s a scruffiness to her, a kind of scrappy soul she’s hung on to from childhood. I haven’t seen her for ten years.
“Hello,” I say, clearing my throat. “I thought it was time.”
She doesn’t do anything except gape. It’s possible I’m not a sight for sore eyes; I might not even be welcome. I made a choice a long time ago, and as soon as I made it, I sealed my fate. But none of that matters now.
“Can I help you?” A man who is so physically flawless he must be a model moves in behind her. “Alex, who’s this?”
“My sister,” she says. The words come out as a scrape.
“Seriously?” Model Material swings the door wider, and I see him take in the ragged hem of my sweater. He’s a Gap ad, all pastels and hope. “Well, hi. Wow. Alex always said that—”
“I said you’re not really one to visit, Ruth.” My sister gives him a pointed look. “That’s what I said.”
“I guess it’s been a while,” I say.
“It has.” She pauses and then steps aside, and I move past them both, the smell of the man overpowering, like the cologne counter in a department store. The loft has vaulted ceilings, and everything’s white. I feel I’ve just entered an art gallery and I mustn’t leave a smudge.
“Nice place,” I say, lowering my bag to the floor gently so the contents don’t make a sound.
“Thanks a lot, yeah.” The man glances at Alex, not quite knowing what to do. Then he picks up my bag and hangs it on a coat hook to the side of the door. “I got a great deal on this place. Friends in the right circles. Come in, sit down. Take a load off.”
The way he’s talking, it’s like he knows I’ve been through hell, like he can see it on me. Alex, for her part, looks like she’s been drained of all bodily fluid. The guy urges me to the designer couch, where I perch at the farthest edge of the cushion, frightened to make a dent. Alex lives here? It doesn’t seem like her at all, not like the girl I once knew. None of us talk; we sit. We simply stare. A minute goes by.
“What happened to you?” Alex says finally. Her arms are crossed over her stomach as if my presence makes her physically sick.
I could ask her the same thing—Where have you been for a decade? But I don’t.
She studies me suspiciously with her sea-gray eyes. But it’s a two-way mirror: she’s different—familiar and yet a silhouette of herself—the years she’s spent away from me like a shroud. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, but what choice did I have? I bought the bus ticket. I got on. I ran away hoping never to look back. And yet now, the past is right in front me.
“You own this place?” I ask, rather than answer her question. “How’s that?”
“I’m sorry.” Model Guy leans out. “I’m Chase Kennedy, Alex’s boyfriend, and this is my apartment. I mean, we live here together. Your … sister and me.” He stretches past Alex with his hand, which I shake limply. I don’t really like his fingers. “And you’re Ruth? Am I getting that right?”
Another glance passes between him and her, one that makes me feel I’m a ghost that’s suddenly begun to haunt. What did she tell him about me?
“Yes. I’m Ruth. I’m Alex’s sister. I always have been.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex cuts in. “But you’ve shown up here rather unexpectedly. This is all kind of a … shock.”
The way she stares at me, it’s pretty clear she doesn’t think it’s the good kind.
Chase tries again. “Are you in town for a while, Ruth? You’re welcome to stay.”
Alex’s back goes ramrod straight. “She probably isn’t. She might not want to.”
Chase looks from her to me and back again, like we’re a tennis game.
“I’ll get out of your hair for a minute and take a shower while you two … chat.” He stands, touching Alex briefly on the arm, searching her face for some kind of explanation.