That word, girls, had been used my entire life to flatten any conflict between us into noise. If I objected to Bethany taking my clothes, we were girls. If Bethany cried because I got into a college she had not applied to, we were girls. If I refused to lend her money at twenty-seven, we were girls.
The server brought iced tea, coffee, and sparkling water. We ordered meals. The conversation moved through safe topics: weather, traffic, someone’s kitchen renovation, a cousin’s engagement, a neighbor’s hip replacement. My mother mentioned three times that Bethany was “figuring things out.” My father mentioned twice that rent in the city had become “criminal.” Bethany watched me with a lazy confidence that made the back of my neck prickle.
In my family, the real reason for a gathering rarely arrived before dessert.
When the plates were cleared and coffee refilled, my mother placed both hands on the table and looked at me with the solemn expression she used when preparing to say something unreasonable.
“Christina,” she said, “we need to discuss something important.”
I set my cup down carefully.
“All right.”