I open my mouth to argue, but then my stomach decides to rumble.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Food first.”
As if conjured by our words, our giant golden retriever Perry bounds into the foyer.
“No, Perry, no food for you. Stay here.”
“We could take him with us,” Harlow suggests.
“The last time we did that he tried to eat a bird.”
“He’s a puppy. He doesn’t know any better.”
“Sometimes you make me sound like such an annoying, boring mother.”
“Uh … because that’s what you act like.” She laughs and runs down the hall for Perry’s leash.
The nice thing about living in Santa Monica is you can take your dog pretty much anywhere.
She returns with the leash and Perry sits, tongue hanging out, waiting for her to put it on him.
Once it’s clasped I unlock the door and we head to my car—a mint colored Chevrolet Spark. It’s small, the perfect size for me, and a gift from my parents. I didn’t want them to spend their hard-earned money on a brand-new car for me, but they insisted so it became my birthday and graduation present.
It’s come in handy having my own car; I definitely get out more than before.
Perry climbs in the back, leaning between the two front seats, panting like he’s been outside for an hour already. He’s barely a year old and gets overly excited about everything.
“Would you want to go to Monsterwiches?” I ask Harlow.
The sandwich shop a couple of miles away is a favorite for locals. Not many tourists know about it, which makes it a nice place to hang out. When tourists start clogging up a place the locals usually clear out.
“Yeah, that’s good with me.” She clicks her seatbelt into place then proceeds to place her feet on the dashboard and turn the volume on the radio up to a deafening level. I turn it down to a more sensible level and she scoffs. “You’re such a fun sucker.”
“Yep, that’s me. Willa the fun sucker. Tell Mom and Dad to put that on my tombstone for me, m’kay?” I start to back out of the driveway.
“Willa,” she gasps, genuinely offended. “Don’t even joke about that kind of thing.”
I put the car into drive, heading down the street. “I’m sorry.”
Sometimes, I forget that I’m weirdly comfortable with my inevitable death. When you come close to dying it’s not that scary anymore, it seems easier, more peaceful than this living part. But I’m sure for my sister, who was twelve at the time, the experience was traumatizing.
“I don’t want to think about a world in which you don’t exist. You’re my sister. My best friend.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
I glance at her quickly with a smile. “I’m not going anywhere, not for a long time,” I vow. “This may have tried to knock me down, but I’m stronger than it.”
I’m stronger because of it.
She smiles softly, emotion flooding her eyes. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
Her words squeeze my heart. It’s nice to hear them.
She turns the radio up again, and this time I don’t change it.
The music quiets the chaos of my mind, as backward as that sounds.
We reach the sandwich shop and I park in the tiny side lot—seriously, there are only three parking spaces, which are frequently fought over since this place is popular.
“I’ll go get our food—you take care of Perry.”