“Thanks again for your help,” she says. Rising on her toes, she leans in and air-kisses the side of my cheek—a complete 180 from last night.
Fuck. I think she just friend-zoned me.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Eleven
Love
* * *
“Surprise!” My older sister, Cameo, stands at my door, her Chanel bag swinging from her left shoulder as her arms open wide.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, meeting her embrace and coming away covered in her abundant gardenia perfume. “And how did you know my new address?”
Cameo brushes her thick blonde hair from her shoulder and strides past me, placing her bag on my kitchen counter and taking a seat.
“Mom told me, silly,” she says. “Anyway, the doctor and I are in town. He’s got some kind of medical conference or something. We’re flying home tomorrow, but I told him I wanted to spend the day with you.”
“How is the doctor?” I ask, fighting a smile. I want to laugh every time she calls him that. He’s a neurosurgeon back in Charleston, and Cameo takes every opportunity to remind us of that.
“Oh, you know, just doing his thing, saving lives one brain surgery at a time,” she says, swatting her manicured hand. “Anyway, how goes it?”
Cameo rests her pointed chin on the top of her dainty hands, giving me her full attention. If I know my sister—and I do—she’s hoping, maybe even praying, that I tell her I’m falling apart, that being a divorcee before the age of thirty is embarrassing, that losing Hunter has been the worst thing to ever happen to me.
But of course none of that is true.
“I’m doing great,” I tell her.
Her head tilts. “Now, you know you don’t have to say that just for my sake. I know you don’t like people to worry about you.”
“Seriously, Cam, things couldn’t be better.” I slide my hands into the back pockets of my Levis, wondering when Cameo’s going to make a comment and pick apart my outfit. She’s always been that way, critical and opinionated, always liked to point out my perceived flaws under the guise of being helpful.
Growing up, Cameo and I were never that close. We had more of an oil and water relationship, much to our parents’ disappointment. Mom always thought since we were so close in age, we’d be best friends. But she didn’t take into account that Cameo was born with a competitive streak a mile wide and the greenest envy I’ve ever seen in another human being.
Mutual resentment was the only language we spoke during our teenage years. Cameo hated that I ran track better than she could, she hated that I dated the boys in her grade that never gave her the time of day, and she hated that I was a daddy’s girl, but she never liked to go fishing and have coin tossing contests or any of the “boring” things Dad liked to do.
After Dad died and it was just us and Mom, we learned to put our differences aside and we got better at being cordial, but Cameo is still Cameo. Let’s just say I love her, but only because I have to …
And I think it’d make our father happy to see us together.
“Let’s go shopping,” my sister says, sliding off the bar stool. I’m not surprised that she doesn’t ask for a tour of my place. Sometimes I think she’s secretly afraid she might see something that will make her jealous, so she acts oblivious and disinterested. “The doctor gave me his AmEx and there’s a Chanel store up the street. Need I say more?”
I’ve never understood Cameo’s penchant for the finer things. We come from a staunch working-class family. Dad was a mechanic and Mom alternated between staying at home and working at the local bank as a teller when money was particularly tight.
Chanel, Versace, and Givenchy weren’t even on our radar, let alone in our vocabulary.
“Give me a sec to get ready,” I say before heading to my room to change. The saleswomen would have a fit if I walked in there like this. It’d be a moment straight out of that scene in Pretty Woman, and while I normally don’t care what people think, dealing with dirty looks and Cameo at the same time might be a bit much.
A half hour later, we arrive at the Chanel on 3rd Avenue via taxi because my sister doesn’t walk anywhere in New York.
“I need something to wear for the post-wedding brunch,” she says, referring to her impending nuptials to the doctor. “Wedding colors are blushing gold and platinum, but I don’t want to seem too matchy-matchy, so I might try to avoid anything pink.”
A saleswoman with jet black hair and pale pink lips struts up to my sister and offers her assistance.
“Let me just pull a few things I think you might like, and I’ll get a dressing room for you,” she says before leaving.
Cameo and I take a seat on a white lacquered bench and she angles herself toward me, crossing her long legs.
“So,” she says with a wicked smirk. “Any prospects?”
Arching a brow, I lean back. “Prospects?”
“Yeah. Are you dating anyone?”
“That’s random.” I glance toward the back of the store, wondering when the saleslady will be back to save me from my sister. “What makes you think I’m dating? The ink is barely dry on my divorce papers.”
Cameo sighs, placing her hand on my knee. “I just want you to be happy.”
“And I need a man to be happy?”
My sister laughs. “No. That’s not what I meant. I just want to make sure you feel fulfilled in all areas of your life. Love is a very basic human need.”
“I’m extremely fulfilled,” I say, facing forward because I can’t look at her right now. “Thanks for your concern though.”
“You know … if you ever thought about moving back home, the doctor’s got a few single friends that I’d love to set you up with.”
“Not moving back home.” All of my memories of Sweet Water, West Virginia are tucked into the back of my mind where they belong, where they stay ideal and nostalgic forever, untainted by everything that’s changed since I left for college at eighteen.
Once you leave home, it’s never the same when you go back.
“You should at least visit a little more often,” she says.
“I visit every other month.”
When I first brought Hunter home, he couldn’t get over how nice our town was, how friendly the locals were, and how clean and picturesque the tree-lined streets were. But after he made his first million, Hunter always found an excuse not to come with me to Sweet Water, calling it “hickish” despite the fact that he grew up in Ivy Grove, which wasn’t half as pretty as it sounded. Most of his town looked abandoned, and the parts that didn’t were filled with weedy yards and trucks parked crooked in gravel driveways after a night at the only bar in town. I always wondered if he was jealous of Sweet Water, resenting it for being quaint and homey and all the things he never had growing up.
“Maybe Mom should start coming here,” I say.
Cameo clasps her hand over her heart, giving a boisterous laugh. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
I’m sure she’d waste no time slapping that on the doctor’s AmEx …