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~ 24 ~
Rule #24: Sisters don't have to ask for help
"Practice my confession
In case I take the stand
I'll say I learned my lesson"
Alec Benjamin - 'If I Killed Someone for You'
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Dante's apartment looks like a medical supply closet had a one-night stand with a college dorm-and lost custody of any organizational skills in the breakup.
The mess throws me off because usually, he's the tidy one. When I'm over, he's always organizing stuff, putting away his medical supplies, making sure his textbooks are neatly stacked. I just sprawl on his couch and watch him, sometimes teasing him about his perfectly aligned sticky notes. But clearly, for the last three days, he hasn't even attempted the facade of tidiness.
Looking at the chaos now—scattered notes, medical supplies probably "borrowed" from the labs, coffee cups breeding in corners—something in my chest tightens. I've been here so many times, but I've never really asked him how he's doing. Like, really doing. Sure, we talk while we eat or during post-sex cuddles, but it's always surface stuff. Safe stuff.
Because getting deeper means getting closer, and closer means more. More feelings, more vulnerability, more chances for things to get messy. And my life has enough mess already, mostly courtesy of Raven.
Speaking of which...
Dante's managed to get Raven stable - something about fluids and monitoring and other medical terms that sound like they're from a TV drama.
She's conscious now, sprawled across his couch like she owns it. And I'm really trying to ignore the fact that this is probably the same couch he's screwed her on, and definitely the same one I was on with him last week.
Yeah, the irony is not lost on me. In fact, it's practically slapping me in the face. This whole twisted triangle just went from awkward to my-past-bad-choices-make-me-want-to-die territory.
Dante really has questionable taste in women. I'm seriously considering cancelling tonight's emotional torture dinner session and ordering him a therapy session instead.
"I'll give you two a minute," Dante says, reading the room. He disappears into his kitchen, probably to stress-organize his medical supplies or something.
I wait until I hear him rattling around before I turn on Raven. "What the actual fuck were you thinking?"
"I wasn't going to die," she mutters, not meeting my eyes.
"Oh really?" I can feel my voice rising. "Because from where I was standing, you were doing a pretty good impression of someone trying to!"
"You don't understand-"
"You're right, I don't understand!" I'm pacing now, gesturing wildly like a crazy person. "I don't understand why my sister was sprawled out in a parking lot, thirty seconds away from a toe tag. I don't understand why you thought driving while high as a fucking satellite was a good idea! And I really don't understand why you're acting like this isn't a big deal!"
"Can you not?" She winces at my volume. "My head feels like it's trying to divorce my body."
"Good! Maybe the pain will knock some sense into you!"
She tries to sit up, then immediately looks like she regrets it. "I didn't have a choice, okay?"
"There's always a choice. Like, literally any choice would have been better than 'let me OD in a school parking lot.'"
YOU ARE READING
Sins of Sisterhood
ChickLitMy mom is a pathetic cook. Not just in the kitchen, but in life. And I don't say that because I hate her. It's just facts. Take her life recipe, for example. She was supposed to have one kid-maybe two-turn them into perfect little princesses, you...
