chapter two.

Val

I regret everything.

Well, not everything. I don't regret moving out. I don't regret saving up and buying my own laptop two years ago. I don't regret reading my first Hemingway novel. What I do regret, though, is staying up until four in the morning last night, because I'm currently running on three hours of sleep and three (going on four) iced coffees, and considering how crappy I already feel, the rest of the day probably isn't going to go much better.

Nevertheless, I put on my jeans, my polka dot blouse, my blazer—even did my makeup and my hair. I'm hoping I don't look like I'm running on three hours of sleep, but the first thing Rita, of my coworkers, says to me when I come into the office is, "Jesus, Val, are you okay?"

So apparently I'm not pulling it off as well as I hoped.

I sling my backpack down underneath my desk; the thud of it could probably be heard all the way across the building. "I'm fine, thanks," I say to Rita, who's stood up from her desk, eyeing me dubiously. She's an impossibly small person, a sort of pastel-goth type from Colombia who stands at about 5'0", not counting the tight top knot she always wears. Rita's also my editor here at our relatively small newspaper, The Terrier's Gazette.

It wasn't my idea to name it after the mascot. In fact, I said quite strictly that we should not. It was an unpopular opinion.

Rita pivots on her heel, disappears for a moment around the corner, and returns with a steaming to-go cup which she forces into my hands. "Here. You need this."

"Rita," I say. I try to hand it back to her, but she doesn't let me. "Please, Rita. This would be—this would be my fifth, maybe? I don't know. I can't count."

"You certainly can't, not when you're this exhausted," says Rita, and when I frown at her, she just waves me off and leans against the edge of my cubicle. She's slightly off-setting one of the pictures I've pinned up of my older sister and me, but I don't say anything. "Tell me, chica. Is there something you want to talk about?"

I set the coffee down on my desk, but push it all the way back in the corner. "I just had an essay due that kept me up. Went out to a cruddy twenty-four hour diner hoping to clear my head a bit, forgot my wallet—"

"Oh, dear," says Rita. The office door opens, and one of the other staff writers, Caz, bustles in, satchel slung over his shoulder and curly hair shoved underneath his typical fluffy beanie. He even wears the thing in the summer. I have somewhat of a theory his hair's just attached to it.

Caz spares Rita and I a minimal wave, and Rita turns back to me, touching my hand briefly. "And how did you get out of that one, might I ask?"

"Luck," I say, sitting back in my chair. "Some guy bought my waffle for me."

"Some guy?"

"Simon," I say, not looking at her. "His name's Simon. He's an English major."

"Oh, an English major!" exclaims Rita, as if she's found a rare gem. "You know what that means!

My eyebrows knit slightly. "That he spends all his time reading books?"

"That he must be romantic," says Rita, with heart-eyes. She sees the look of utter disgust on my face and leans away from my cubicle, laughing to herself. "Oh, you know it's true! They have read all the books. So they have all the game."

"We'll see about that."

"Oh, will we?" Rita says. "When are you seeing him again?"

I let the question sit untouched for a moment like food that came out too hot, not because I don't know the answer, but rather because I don't want to give Rita the satisfaction of hearing it. I still remember the quiet, questioning way he'd said, Next time? like he hadn't been expecting it. In a way, neither was I.

I'm saved from having to come up with an interim answer when Caz swings by and drags Rita away. "That's enough, Rita," he says, sparing me a quick smile. "We shouldn't interrogate her. Val, you've got an article to write, don't you?"

"Yeah. International Night."

He clicks his teeth and points at me. "Get on that."

I set my laptop on my desk and open it, waving him and Rita off. "I know, I know."

"What she needs to get on," I hear as Rita and Caz walk away, "is that as—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" snaps Caz, looking at her in shock, and soon Rita is laughing, and soon enough all of us are.

Somehow, I can already tell she's here.

When I reach my townhouse after work, the front door is cracked, but oddly enough, there's no sense of alarm within me—just a placid surprise, like I was taking a walk and stumbled upon an unexpectedly beautiful garden. So when I hop up the stoop and nudge the door in and call into the foyer, "Hello?" it doesn't feel like I've entered a horror movie.

For a moment the foyer is empty, quiet. I nudge the door shut behind me, taking in the narrow room I've now walked into: large potted plants (likely too large) loom on either side of the door, and the side table against the wall takes up way too much space. It feels a little as if I've walked into a decorative closet, which is always the case. But, hey, I'm a journalist, not an interior designer.

Then I hear the pitter patter of a child's footsteps, a gleeful cry. In another moment little Charlie has nearly tackled me, pressing her face into my thighs and squeezing her little arms around my waist. I chuckle a little, ruffling her hair, the same tightly-coiled texture as my sister's.

I look up. "Hey, Jo."

Jo, my older sister, is standing sheepishly at the edge of the hall, her gaze flicking intermittently between her daughter and me. I'm not sure I like the look on her face: anticipation, worry, fear, as if she's just waiting for me to turn her away.

Last time we saw each other, she was getting on a bus to head to New York. Said she had new opportunities out there; that she would be alright. Now she is standing here, her braids heavily frizzed and her massive flannel shirt riddled with stains and holes in the soles of her ancient tennis shoes. Now she is standing here, and I'm not sure whether to be more relieved or terrified.

Charlie detaches herself from me, looking up at me with wide, chocolate brown eyes. It's too easy to get lost in those eyes, so I just grin at her and pinch her cheek and then look up at my sister again. "Jo?"

"Hey, Val."

"How did you get here?"

She shrugs, almost sadly. "I spent the last of what I had on a bus fare here. I...I thought I had it...but I just lost it again. I promise I'll figure it out, if you could just—"

I shrug my bag off my shoulder and let it hit the floor, stepping forward. Jo seems startled, confused, even as I exhale and close her in my arms. She stands awkwardly for a moment before returning the gesture, and then it feels like it did when we were little girls, when I would practically run into her arms after a long day and she'd hold me and tell me it was all going to be okay.

"You're my sister," I say into her shoulder. "As if I'd turn you and Charlie away?"

I feel her physically crumple with relief against me. "I'm gonna get it right this time."

"I know," I say, stepping back. My eyes flit momentarily to the kitchen down the hall. My first order of business is finding food, since now I've got three mouths to feed instead of one. "I know you will."

There are so many questions I want to ask her. What happened in New York? Where did you stay? Have you talked to Mom and Dad? Why won't they help you? It's less of a want, even—more of a need. I need to ask her these things. But somehow I know she won't give me the answers, at least not now. This is the thing with my sister. Sometimes it's just better not to know.

Charlie drags herself up on a barstool while Jo loiters by the sink. I dig around in the fridge, don't find anything of value, turn to the pantry instead. I find a box full of microwave mac-and-cheese cups, which Charlie will love, and Jo will hate, but it's all I have right now.

I toss it onto the counter, and Charlie cheers. "My pantry's kinda empty," I say with a shrug in Jo's direction. "I can run out and restock it. Do you wanna come with?"

"Me?" Jo says.

"No, I was asking the fridge," I say, already fishing my keys from my jacket pockets. My nose is still nipped from the cold, and my fingers have hardly thawed. "Yes, you, Jo. You, too, Charlie! How about a grocery trip?"

Charlie pounds on the countertop with her fists and bellows out another cheer. I take this as a yes.

"Good," I say, nudging Jo with my shoulder. "I can tell you guys about Simon on the way."

"Simon?" Jo repeats. "Who's Simon?"

I grin. "I'm not sure yet."