As I’ve already mentioned, my red hair looks like a perpetual cyclone circles around it while hers is all smooth and sleek from weekly blowouts. Her fingers are soft, her nails manicured. Mine are chewed and ragged.
The list could go on and on, but you get the point. There’s not much we have in common.
I assume she’s on her way into work, and maybe stopped in on a whim. She owns an art gallery on First Avenue in Belltown, but her condo is just a short four-block walk north of One Bean.
Not that she’d make the walk. No, I’m sure she had a car service bring her here, and the driver is probably circling the block until she’s ready to head to the gallery.
It’s not intentional on her part, but she always makes me feel drab in comparison to her, despite my fire-engine-red hair. Today, she’s exquisitely elegant in a pair of wide-legged, camel-colored pants, a white blouse that frills up around her neck but in no way looks old fashioned, and beautiful nude heels with pointed toes that look like they’d kill the feet within just a few moments of putting them on. Fallon changes her hair frequently, but the style du jour is an asymmetrical bob that’s cut just to the nape at the back and hangs longer in the front but doesn’t quite touch her shoulders. It’s shiny, and I’m sure laden with a hundred dollars’ worth of product.
She lifts her head when I set her coffee on the table and I take the chair opposite her. Because I know it will irritate her, I slump down and kick my legs out, my hands curled around my recycled cardboard cup of java. “So, what’s up?”
Fallon doesn’t answer right away, instead appraising me as she takes a sip of her coffee. She gives a tiny moan of satisfaction, which I don’t get… it’s decaf, and soy, and just gross.
“You should sit up straight,” she murmurs, intentionally ignoring my question as to what brings her into my domain. In the six years since I’ve been working at One Bean, this may be the third time she’s come in.
Because I don’t want to fight, I straighten and even cross one leg over the other to mimic her pose. I may dress in grunge most of the time, but I still have a distinctly feminine side. “Why are you here?”
Her look is chastising. “You missed dinner last night.”
“You make it sound like I just didn’t show up,” I reply calmly. “I texted you and told you I had to work late.”
All true, and what does it say about me that I was relieved I had to work late and would not have to suffer through a meal with Fallon and her incredibly snobbish, uptight fiancé.
“Just as you’ve missed the last four dinner invitations I’ve extended to you,” she replies in a censuring tone.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, and truthfully, I am. I wish I could be a better sister to her because she does try to include me in her life.
She gives me a small smile, perhaps an acceptance of my apology. “I certainly hope you took tonight off.”
“Tonight?” I ask, mind racing. “Why tonight?”
Fallon’s beautiful face goes slack, her eyes filling with disappointment. “My art show? The one I asked you to please come to over four months ago—that you promised to attend? I’ve been sending you texts all week to remind you, but you haven’t responded. So if you want to know why I’m here, Miss Finley Porter, it’s to make sure you’re going to live up to your promise and come tonight.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I had totally forgotten. I’m horrible at keeping track of functions. I miss half the appointments I schedule because I simply forget to put them in that handy-dandy little calendar on my iPhone.
Moreover, I probably subconsciously didn’t put it in my phone and have been consciously ignoring her texts because while I love my sister, and I’m proud of her for this big show she’s putting on, there is no place I would rather avoid than an art gallery filled with rich, obnoxious people dressed in five-figure dresses and bidding insane amounts of money on ugly paintings.
“Fallon.” The pleading in my eyes matches my tone. “I’m so sorry. But I forgot and unfortunately—”
She cuts me off mid-excuse with a hand held up, palm facing me. Her voice has its own pleading tone. “You promised, Finley.”
My gaze drops. I had indeed promised. At the time, I got sucked in because she was begging me to come, wanting her sister by her side. She guilted me, and, yes, I promised.
“You know, Finley,” she continues, her voice getting softer by the word. “I try so hard to keep a relationship going with you, but you make it so difficult. I try to let go of all the things you do to show me I’m not important enough in your life, like ignoring all my dinner invitations. But this is incredibly important. I don’t ask a lot of you, but I am asking you to uphold your promise to me.”