Page 59 of Dial F for Finance

I snort, and the sound startles me because it’s real.

“I’m sorry I left you with her. With him and their mess.”

Hailey lets out a short laugh. “Don’t lie. You’re glad you got out. Hell, I’m glad you got out.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers. “I know I give you shit about your lipstick and your fancy clothes and the way you started talking—but I don’t hate that you left, nen. I hate that I can’t figure out how to do it too. Every morning I get on a train to go make a mediocre man look competent, and I come home and make sure Ma took her pills, and until now, I’ve visited Dad every Monday to make sure he didn’t bet the water bill over the weekend, and I love you so much, and some days I could scream at you for an hour straight.” She shrugs. “But most of the time I’m just glad. You deserve the life you have.”

“Do I?” My eyes sting and I have to look away. This is the most honest my sister and I have been with each other in years, and naturally my first instinct is to make it worse by telling a joke. “You know, I once paid twenty-six dollars for a salad that contained three leaves and a philosophical argument.”

Hailey squeezes my hand. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. But I don’t think I deserve anything.”

The admission sits between us, heavy and alive.

“Why wouldn’t you? You worked for it, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes . . .” I start, because I guess I deserve parts of my life. The office, maybe. The apartment with the terrible water pressure and the view of the river. The red-bottomed shoes I bought after my first bonus because I wanted to know what it felt like to walk into a room without hoping people wouldn’t look at my feet.

But the rest?

The friends who keep dragging me into their orbit. The man who texts to ask if I’m OK and offers to disappear so I can be comfortable. The husband I’m trying to legally dissolve before anyone notices I might already be attached to the idea.

Deserve feels complicated.

“There’s a but coming,” Hailey prompts.

“It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel real.” I squeeze her hand. “This feels real.” I look around our childhood kitchen. “Whenever I’m here, I feel like I’ve been trespassing in the life I built. Like Chicago is a very convincing hotel room I’ve been allowed to occupy as long as I don’t touch the minibar.”

Hailey’s face softens in a way that makes her look twelve for half a second. “Nen.”

“I’m fine,” I say, immediately, because apparently my emotional range has a trip wire.

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m functionally fine.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Hailey points toward the ceiling with her chin. “She’s going to be out for at least three hours. Maybe four if the wine was supermarket-strength, which, based on her monologue about international whoring, I’m guessing yes.”

“I’m guessing that means you think we should escape?”

“Hells yeah.” She stands and starts clearing plates with the decisiveness of a woman staging a prison break. “We’re going. Out. Into air. Like sisters. We’ll get the cake, maybe coffee, maybe walk around and talk about something that isn’t our dysfunctional parents.”

“I’ve heard of such topics,” I say, standing because if I stay seated, I’ll start saying things I can’t put back. “Mostly from documentaries.”

“Great. Put on shoes you can walk in.”

“I am wearing shoes I can walk in.”

Hailey looks down at my boots, then back at me. “Seriously?”

I roll my eyes dramatically and grab my purse. “Seriously. You’ll have to learn how to walk comfortably in heels if you want me to start recommending you whenever recruiters try and poach me from Bennett.”

Hailey gasps. “You’d do that?”

“If you’re serious about wanting to leave, absolutely.”

She rushes me like she’s about to hug me but stops. “Shit. What about . . .” She points at the ceiling.

I step toward her and take her hand. “She literally just called you a whore, Hails.”