I grab the one my mother advised I use and slip back outside, and straight down the street.
With a small scowl and slightly hurried steps, Arsen meets me halfway.
“You almost done?”
His shoulders ease as if he was concerned. He glances behind him, seeing the young boys pick up their water bottles and heading back inside the house.
He turns back with a nod.
“Want to help me pick out a new car?”
His smile is slow, and when he wraps an arm around my shoulder, steering me toward his Camaro, I hold in an entirely different kind of sigh, pretending his low chuckle isn’t a settling sound.
But when our first stop is at a mechanic shop a few blocks away, the boys stepping from the door the moment we pause in front of it, I’m no longer capable of holding it in, not with all three of them here now.
My sigh slips.
“Why can’t you valet like normal people?” Monti whines, one hand lifting to cover her yawn, the other gripping her coffee cup for dear life.
I put my car in park and push my door open. Swinging my legs out, I reach inside to grab my own drink, meeting her puffy, hungover eyes. “And have them go through my things and pretend they didn’t? No.”
I get out and the click of her heels matches mine as she drops her head back dramatically, looking up at the parking garage ceiling. “It’s a brand-new car, J, there’s nothing in it.”
I laugh and we start forward. “You act like we’re not within twenty feet of the entrance.”
“You act like you don’t know what it feels like to put on six-inch heels the day after a formal gala!”
I spin, walking backward, scowling at her as my mother would—tight-lipped, nostrils tucked, and head tipped, disapproving glint in my eye—and recite one of her lessons with her motherly tone of choice: annoyance.
“A smart woman follows up a six-inch with a four. Trick your body into thinking it’s getting a break, Monti, and tell your mind to fuck off.”
Monti laughs, flipping me off. “And don’t forget—”
“To smile,” we say in unison, laughing as we step through the automatic doors and into the fresh smell of lavender and eucalyptus.
At the counter, an older woman with kind eyes and a bun a ballerina would be envious of, welcomes us with a smile.
“Monti and Jameson Filano.” My sister throws her arm around my shoulders.
“Of course.” The woman’s spine straightens, and she keeps her smile high and clear, I’ll give her that, but there’s a shift in the air, one I’m not sure Monti is aware of as she follows up with a blinding smile.
The thing about my sister, she has the ability to swallow a room without any effort. She is so beyond beautiful that it makes others uncomfortable, she’s that... perfect.
Her hair is a rich brown shade like mine, but fuller and shinier with a natural wave she doesn’t have to touch if she doesn’t wish to, though she never allows them to be seen. Her eyes, perfectly almond-shaped and the color of roasted honey, almost unrealistic in shade, are so mesmerizing, and framed with thick, curved lashes. Let’s not forget her full, mauve-colored lips with a perfect heart’s arch.
Don’t even get me started on her figure.
All in all, if there was any woman in the world who could step out of the shower and directly in front of a camera with zero prepping or retouches to follow, it’s Monti.
The sad part?
She’s the most self-conscious person I know.
She spends hours in the mirror documenting every flaw, literally writing them down in a journal she keeps tucked in her handbag, and even more at the gym. She counts every calorie, and while she doesn’t restrict herself from what she wants to indulge in, she does work off more than she consumes. Every single day.
But you would never guess any of that, and she makes sure of it.
It’s not mentally or physically healthy, but how many of us can say we are?
People are supposed to be flawed, but how do you learn to accept such a thing when your own mother has convinced you your only attribute to the world is beauty?
My sister is so much more than beauty.
So much more than me.
“Right this way.” The woman bows her head, and the doors to the left open.
We step into the hall, following it around the curved corner where another woman awaits us, fresh robes and booties in her hands.
Across from her station are dressing rooms with lockers, so we make quick work of changing and when we step out, she offers us a flute of champagne, but we both decline in favor of the coffees we brought in.
It’s with a gracious smile she outstretches her hand. “Please.” She motions toward another set of automatic doors, and when those open, it’s with a heavy dose of steam.
My sister and I step through, into a rain-forest themed room.
Large leaves cascade from every inch of the walls, down the sides and hang high above, small lights threaded throughout, the soft sounds of showers filling the room.
Two large stone-like baths are set against the wall, a waterfall leading into the foot of them, a set of bamboo tables outstretched on the opposite side, steaming towels on top of them and a tray of fresh fruit in the middle.
Monti walks over, picking off a small piece of pineapple, and plucks it between her lips.
We drop our robes and slip into the steaming tubs, breathing in the steam and allowing it to open our lungs and pores.
“Seriously, I haven’t done this in months.” My sister moans, and I fight a grin when the masseuse who slipped into the room slowly backs out of it. “This is amazing.”
She rolls her head along the back of the stone, her eyes meeting mine.
Monti and I didn’t lose touch when she came here last year. We talked all the time, almost as much as when she was home, and we still do. I text her through the day or she me to the point where I consider us close, but close is subjective, and I think Monti might disagree.
She and I talk about the annoying guy who eats during her lectures and new items added to the coffee house menus or joke about what might be said when Gennie reports back to our mom each week. It’s more chatter, easy flowing conversation that provides a sense of a connection, but at the surface is where we stay.
It’s not for her lack of trying, but at the end of the day, I am who I am, which happens to be what my sister fears the most, my mother’s creation.
A blank canvas to be filled and fussed with at the hands of another, without so much as a blink or care or concern. Taught to look without seeing, to smile without feeling, and to speak without interest.
I’m a Monet.
A chameleon.
I’m whatever I must be.
Monti doesn’t judge, never condemns, but I know she pities me. It’s a waste on her part, not that I have to tell her that.
She’s already aware.
“I’ve missed you, sister,” she whispers suddenly, her eyes softening.
I give her a pinched smile and look away.
“I asked them to send me over a profile for all the masseuses. Naturally, I get the hotter, larger-handed man, and picked the one with hairy knuckles for you.”
A laugh sputters from us both and just like that, she brings us back into our own kind of sisterhood.
Two hours later, my sister groans. “Oh my god, what does she want?”