“So, how’ve you been?”
My sister hums, tilting her head to the side in consideration as she picks up her glass. Drops of condensation slide down the sides as she tilts the fruity lemonade toward her mouth. Her tinted chapstick leaves a light mark on the lip of the cup.
All around us, patrons talk and eat and drink their coffee. Dozens of different people, relationships, and lives surround us. The chatter is comforting and mixes well with the steady drum of rain from outside. I take a deep breath, breathing in the scent of perfume, chocolate, coffee, and tea. It’s chaos, but there’s something comforting about being just another person, surrounded by other people.
Nothing special, and nothing complicated.
My sister sets her glass down, rocking the rickety table, and I rush forward to steady my steaming cup of tea before the dark liquid can spill over the sides. I shoot her a disapproving look, and she sticks her tongue out, scrunching her nose and elegantly flipping me off.
“So immature,” I muse.
“Takes one to know one,” she mutters.
The glares last for two seconds before we break, twin grins breaking out across our faces. Three years between us, and we still get comments about how similar we look. However, looking at her now, I can see where we started to diverge.
Her long hair is streaked with honey-blonde highlights, carefully pulled back into a tight bun. Wispy strands float around her face, emphasizing her tanned skin and the soft blush on her cheekbones. Her dark eyes are emphasized by a light sheen of glitter and mascara, and her lips are a gentle shade of peach. Her jewelry drips from her ears and neck in varying shades of gold.
My hair, much darker and cut far choppier, is held back by only a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of my head. Black eyeliner and eyeshadow line my eyes, sharpening my gaze and emphasizing the subtle harshness of my features. Tattoos peek out from the hems of my pants, and my chunky boots swing back and forth. My dangling earrings and necklace are shiny silver.
I haven’t seen her in a few months. I find myself trying to spot the new differences: a new hair clip, brightly colored nail polish, and dirty, scuffed shoes. Fresh tan lines and darker bags under her eyes. So much has changed in just a short span of time.
But sitting here, I can tell our smiles are still the same. Our lips still twitch upwards in the same direction, and our eyes crinkle the same way when we laugh. Just like when we were kids.
“How’s medical school?” I ask, reaching down to rummage in my purse for a cigarette. “Have you flunked out yet?”
She wrinkles her nose as I flick the lighter once, twice, three times before the spark catches. I take a quick drag and purse my lips, blowing the smoke directly into her face. She yelps, trying to wave the air away, and I cackle.
“Brat,” she hisses, still swiping at the air frantically. I shrug and shoot her another smirk, pretending to pucker my lips again. She immediately kicks me in the shin, and I squeak, coughing and choking on the smoke and my surprise.
“Idiot,” I wheeze, trying and failing to kick at her feet. She scooches her chair back quickly, and I glare at her when I kick empty air.
She laughs and takes another sip of her iced drink, the cubes clinking gently in the glass cup. “I like school—it’s fun. A lot of work, though. We’re working on anatomy now—the nervous system.” She seems to remember something and shudders, her face twisting with disgust. “We had to cut open a cadaver last week, and it was horrible. So, so, so gross. You would’ve liked it.”
This last bit is meant as an insult, but the tiny smile on her face dismisses any idea of it being mean. I grin. “Oh, would I?”
“Yes! It was all dead and gross and smelled horrific.”
“Almost as bad as you do?”
“No, it actually smelled a lot like you. I was reminded of you and almost threw up.”
We each take a sip of our drinks, hiding smiles behind our cups. I take another drag from my cigarette, and her eyes track the motion.
“Those’re gonna kill you soon, y’know.”
I sigh, glancing down at where the smoking cigarette is dangling from my fingers. It was a bad habit I had picked up studying abroad in France during college. I hadn’t really tried to stop yet, even though I had been meaning to.
“Wanna try?” I ask, holding it out like an olive branch over our pastries.
She scrunches her face, twisting her lips into a scowl. And yet, I can tell that there’s still a spark of curiosity in her eyes. It reminds me of when we were little and would let our childlike wonder rule our lives. Back when we only really had each other, and I was still the fascinating and cool older sister who could do no wrong.
I wonder, distantly, when I stopped being that person for her. Or, if I did at all.
When I waggle my hand impatiently, she rolls her eyes and reaches forward to pluck it from my grasp. It looks disastrous out of place in her hand, sharply contrasting her ruffled, pink top and athletic leggings. She gives it a scrutinizing look for a moment before bringing it to her lips and attempting to take a pull.
Instantly, she breaks out in a round of harsh hacking. I swipe it from her fingers before she can throw it, laughing so hard my stomach is starting to hurt. Tears well up in her eyes as she coughs, and tears of laughter turn my vision foggy.
After we both get ourselves under control, she drains half of her lemonade. “That is vile,” she croaks.
I smugly take the last pull, pointedly not coughing, and crush it under my foot. She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out again.
“How’s law school?” she asks, tearing off a piece of my croissant and popping it into her mouth. I slap her hand away before she can grab more.
“It’s okay,” I say, reaching forward to grab milk and sugar for my tea. “Obviously, it’s not medical school, but it’s still a lot. I just didn’t realize it would be this much reading and writing. It’s all I ever seem to do now.”
My sister frowns. “You love reading and writing.”
“Yeah,” I agree, beginning to portion out scoops of sugar. “But I like reading fanfiction and writing poems. Not legal documents.”
She rolls her eyes, exaggerating the movement. “You’re so stupid.”
I flip her off, my many rings jingling at the motion. She grabs another piece of my croissant, and I pretend not to see it.
What she doesn’t know is that I’d give her anything and everything. No matter what.
“Can I pour the milk in your tea?” she asks, her hand already poised to grab the small metal cup filled with warm milk. I nod, and she drags my cup and saucer closer to her. With practiced motions, she pours the milk in and dumps in two scoops of sugar, and we watch as the milk swirls and dances in with the dark tea.
I’m slightly shocked that she remembered how I usually make my tea. She grabs a spoon, gives the London Fog a quick spin, and pushes the drink toward me. She must read the expression on my face because she says, “I’ve seen you make this drink a million times. It’s not that hard to pour milk into tea. Well, maybe it is for you.”
I give the table a light shove, and she scrambles to right everything before it can teeter off the wobbly table. The glower she sends me is almost murderous. I grin cheekily at her and swipe her brownie from her plate, taking a huge bite before she can stop me.
“How’s the book coming?” she asks, picking up her drink again.
I shrug, shifting in my seat. In my bag is my manuscript, fresh off the press and ready to go through its final round of editing. I’m supposed to drop it off in a few hours. It’s strange to be almost done with something that has consumed my whole life for two years.
Being an author, though, has been my life’s ambition. I’m so close to achieving it that it almost hurts—to want something so badly and finally get it. It’s…surreal, and I can’t tell if it’s good or not. I hope it’s good
“It’s going okay,” I mutter into my mug of tea. “Should be published soon.”
‘Next month’ sits on the tip of my tongue, but I fight the urge to say it. I don’t want to curse it—not when I’m this close to getting everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
“That’s good,” she says, her voice much softer than before. “I bet it will be great. I can’t wait to read it.”
“Thanks.” I smile, and it feels a little too genuine. I instantly go to correct the mood, a teasing tone filling my voice. “It might be a little too hard for you to read, seeing as it is more difficult than a second-grade reading level.”
My sister’s soft smile shifts to a scowl, and I can see so much of our parents in her expression. I can tell she’s fighting back a smile, though, based on the way her lips twitch and her eyes crinkle.
“How’re Mom and Dad?” I ask, taking a sip of my tea.
“They’re okay,” she says, “they miss you. They were wondering when you were gonna visit them.”
I hum, picking at the corner of her brownie again. “Soon, I think. I just need to find the time.”
She nods, poking at the ice in her cup with a fork. “I told them I was getting tea with you today.”
“Did you, now?” I say, smiling at her. She smiles back, toothy and childlike.
We’re so different, and yet, so similar. She is one of the only people I have always had, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Our hair and clothes might be different, but our smiles are the same.
“Yes, I did,” she says. She picks up my mangled croissant and takes a huge bite, chocolate smearing across her lips and teeth. “Now, I’ve got about four hours before my flight leaves. Tell me all the drama. Don’t forget anything.”
I signal for the barista to make us more lemonade and tea, and I settle in to talk to my sister.
I missed you and I love you, is never said aloud, but it is heard loud and clear.
Reese Lovell is a current undergraduate student double majoring in Writing-Intensive English and Political Science.
“Two Sisters (On the Terrace)”, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1881).