One
Lyla
I’m probably not choking to death on a spider.
That’s my first thought when I wake up in the middle of the night in a violent coughing fit, gasping for air. I think back on that debunked article I read, about how unlikely it is that people actually swallow eight spiders while sleeping each year. So, a small rush of relief hits me. Because even though I sit here, basically dying from this random assault on my esophagus, at least it probably isn’t due to a spider having crawled into my gaping mouth. There’s a small amount of comfort in that.
I have no idea why I flew up in bed—choking and hacking and coughing up a lung—rising like the undead. All I know for sure is I’m choking on air. Just air. Air is trying to kill me. I don’t even inhale correctly. I sip water as I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to clear my windpipe. As it passes, I reach for my phone to check the time.
Three after three in the morning is the last thing I want to see.
But what’s more surprising is the text message from my sister.
Given we only really exchange texts about three times a year, and see each other even less, this is…unexpected, to say the least. It isn’t that we don’t get along or dislike each other. We’ve made very different life choices and don’t have much in common, which has resulted in few conversational topic options.
I open the message and her urgency nearly startles me into a new coughing fit.
Harper: Call me. It’s important.
For Harper, this message may as well be a blaring SOS in the middle of the ocean. I check to see what time the text came in. Two twenty-seven A.M. This is highly unusual behavior for her. My sister is, for lack of a more precise term, not the type to be up so late without significant provocation. Okay, maybe that is pretty precise. Knowing that, I can tell whatever it’s about must actually be important.
I press the call button without thinking about what time it is or much else, but it rings until her voicemail picks up. Then my thoughts really take a turn.
Maybe she’s pregnant?
No, she wouldn’t be texting so late with good news. Or she’d at least use an exclamation.
Maybe someone died? Nan? Paw?
Wow, no. Don’t think about that.
Despite my need to wake up in three hours for work, I’ll most likely be unable to fall back asleep, thanks to her cryptic text.
Awesome.
I toss my head back on my pillow and roll onto my left side. I’m not sure why sleeping on a particular side of the bed is still important to me. I don’t have a boyfriend or husband or even a casual hookup to share the bed with. I can sprawl myself out all over the middle or other side or wherever I want, but I still choose to tuck myself neatly onto the right side of the bed. In which case, lying on my left side makes it so I’m staring into the empty expanse of the rest of my queen pillowtop. It’s like a fun little reminder built right in.
Oh, right. Hey, Lyla? You’re alone.
Most nights, I don’t hate it. I’ve been single for quite a few years now. And by quite a few years, I mean basically each one of my adulthood. I can attest to a few positive points. For one, I don’t have to concede television time, food options, or things like sides of the bed. I watch, eat, and do whatever I want. It has its merits. Plus, I don’t have to check in with anyone or worry about things like jealousy or how I split my time. My life is drama free. Worry free. Though, I am fairly certain my nan is worried I’ll become an old spinster lady with a bunch of cats. Lucky for both of us, I don’t really like cats.
Are there spinster dog ladies?
I could get on board with that. Hell, I would probably be on my way to such a glorious life if my apartment was pet-friendly.
I punch my pillow several times, blaming it as the reason for my discomfort and inability to fall back asleep. Time passes in a strange fashion when you’re lying in bed, thinking too hard about nothing in particular.
When I check my phone again, it’s already four A.M. and I don’t know when that happened. I shut my eyes tight, hoping the added pressure of holding them closed will help tire me out.
Suddenly, and without context, my high school boyfriend pops into my head.
Don’t you just love when that happens?
I really hate my brain.
Why? Why do brains do this?
I don’t understand why brains decide to use the most inopportune moments to bring up the most painful or random or awkward moments in your past and cycle them up front and center. Like this is the exact moment you might need to resolve your previously unresolved feelings about some ancient happening you’ve tried so hard to forget.
I slam my head into my pillow over and over again. I haven’t thought about Dean Callahan in years. Maybe not even since the day he broke up with me, which incidentally, was prom day—three weeks before graduation and four weeks before I moved away and never looked back. Not really anyway. I’ve gone back for a few holidays and important events over the years, but that’s all. And I never drag it out longer than necessary. I get in and out—usually the same day if I can help it.
So, why exactly Dean is in my thoughts tonight is beyond me. Our relationship would require a chart to understand, and then a whole separate chart for my twenty/twenty hindsight on the matter. Blissful in the moment but torture to reflect on. That about sums it up.
While part of me is genuinely worried about my sister and Nan and Paw, another part of me is secretly wishing and hoping this is not the sort of catastrophe that requires my homecoming. Just thinking about it makes me feel selfish.
Eventually I fall back asleep—with thoughts of Dean and the words from our breakup serving as my nightmarish lullaby.
Two
Lyla
“I’m getting a divorce, Lyla,” Harper says, sobbing through the muffled telephone line. I can hear my sister sniffling and wiping her nose as she tries to compose herself enough to speak whole sentences to me.
“What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and measured, knowing now is the time to lend an ear and try not to ask too many questions. To just be a sounding board.
“I don’t know, you know? Just grew apart, I guess. He says he fell in love with someone else. Oh, Lyla, it’s awful,” and the sobs set in again.
That ass.
My heart cracks in my chest. I see fire and brimstone. I am raging inside but again, my voice remains tempered. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry. I’m going to come down,” I say. I won’t lie, I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I can’t leave her to break alone.
My little sister chose a happily ever after—a quiet life, a husband, and a vow. I, on the other hand, had flown off, career in mind, dating only when convenient or necessary. I’ve been living mostly in solitude, if I’m being honest. Dating any one person never lasted for me because, well, that’s how I like it. Dating, settling down, finding love…all that junk has never been my focus. The point is, she’d chosen the opposite, and now it’s crumbling around her. As her big sister, I have to go and hold her together.
“No, you don’t have to do that—really. Don’t go through any trouble for me,” Harper says, and sniffs again.