“You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
That night, I told Andrew everything. He was loading the dishwasher, and for a long moment the only sound in the kitchen was the clink of plates sliding into the rack.
At last he said, “She actually called it a test?”
“Twice.”
He nudged the bottom rack closed with his knee.
“I think I’ll stay out of it.”
“Why?”
“She’s your sister.”
At the time, it sounded fair. Respectful, even.
It took me three days to understand how alone it left me.
For illustrative purposes only
Part Three: Sunday Morning
Sunday morning, I was buttering toast when I heard Kayla’s footsteps on the stairs. Andrew sat at the table, both hands wrapped around his coffee.
She appeared in the doorway.
Same towel.
Same bare feet.
Same calm, total indifference to the fact that I’d asked her — three times now — not to.
I set the butter knife down hard.
“Kayla—”
Andrew’s hand brushed my wrist.
“Wait.”
I turned to him, surprised. He stood, carried his mug to the counter, and set it down with deliberate care.
“Let me take this one.”
Kayla’s face lit up.
“Finally.”
Andrew leaned against the counter, easy, unhurried.
“You’ve been calling this a test all week. Right?”
“Exactly.”
