Page 9 of Sweet Ruin

“It builds character.”

“Does it?”

“No,” I admit honestly. “Just heartburn and back pain.” I tap in his order at the register. “That’ll be twelve-fifty. Good luck in the afterlife.”

“Thanks, Miss...?” He arches his eyebrow, obviously asking for my name.

But before I can reply, the doorbell chimes and he gets his answer at full volume.

“DEE-DEE!”

I grimace. As always, my sister is heard before she is seen.

She comes bustling through like she thinks she’s a movie star, huge purse slung over one forearm, even huger sunglasses perched on her nose. Her hair is freshly blown out, diamond studs glint in her ears, and, even though it’s winter in New York and thus nipple-achingly cold outside, her sweater is cropped high above the navel to show off a midsection that Naomi Campbell would die for.

“Hi, Viv,” I mumble.

“Oh my God, it smells like a Bath & Body Works in here,” she declares at the top of her lungs as she cuts through the waiting queue. She comes to a halt in front of the register and gives me a scathing up-and-down over the rim of her sunglasses. “Are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?”

I look down at myself. “Uh... maybe? I can’t remember.”

“Ew.”

She glances to the side at the man in the pea coat. He glances back at her.

And, like always, I see it happen.

The Shift.

His eyes, which a moment ago were flirtatiously fixed on me, go to her—and then go huge.

It’s cartoonish, almost. Full-on goo-goo-ga-ga. Any second now, his tongue is gonna fall out of his mouth and unroll on the floor until it reaches the door like a red carpet. Is that steam coming from his ears? Hearts thumping in his pupils?

If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times. I no longer exist, in his eyes.

It’s just Viv, Viv, Viv.

The Shift. From me to her.

She gets the spotlight.

I go invisible.

“Hi,” Vivian says to him. She pushes her sunglasses up into her hair.

“Hel—Hell—er, hi,” he mumbles back.

It appears that’s all he’s got. Ten seconds ago, he had jokes and smooth retorts aplenty. Now, in my sister’s vicinity, one syllable is enough to trip him up.

I put his box on the counter and slide it toward him. “Twelve-fifty,” I repeat.

He fumbles his card out of his wallet without looking at me, taps it, and takes the box.

“Thanks,” he says.

To her, not to me.

“You’re welcome,” Vivian says, even though she didn’t do anything.