Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,6

out of my boba tea with a wide straw. I was afraid if I caught it, I’d choke.

I paused at a crosswalk, feeling March’s cold fingers pinch my cheeks like a passive-aggressive auntie. I zipped up my coat, wound my scarf around my neck, and pulled on my beanie. The sneaky brisk air still found ways to slip under my collar and reach my skin. Fortunately, I was too emotionally numb to feel it.

Betrayed. That’s what I was feeling. And it cut deep.

I walked the two and a half miles, including a particularly freezing stretch across the Longfellow Bridge, to my apartment, fuming with every step. You’d think my fury would warm me up. It didn’t. Mostly because Annabelle was relentless—like a honey badger, she didn’t give a shit—and kept calling and texting and calling and texting. I loved my sister like no other. Truly, she was my ride or die, but sometimes her tenacity positively wore me out.

I unlocked the door to my building and stepped into the vestibule, relieved to be out of the biting wind. The door locked automatically behind me as I took the stairs to my apartment. My phone chimed again, and this time, armed with a name for my emotions, I answered Annabelle’s call eagerly.

“When did Dad tell you?” I asked.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sis.” Annabelle’s voice dripped sarcasm but not surprise. “I thought you were never going to answer.”

I knew my younger sister was avoiding the question, and it served only to stoke the fire of my indignation. Not only was our father planning to get remarried, I’d bet big money he’d told Annabelle way before me. Shouldn’t he have told us together? It seemed a strong enough hook to hang my ire on.

“When?” I took off my winter wear and hung it on the coatrack on the backside of my front door. I paced my apartment, avoiding the squeaky board that ran down the middle. I lived on the second floor of a well-appointed three-story brownstone on Worcester Street in Cambridge. The windows were large, the floors wooden, and the place was as drafty as a train platform, but the view from the lone bedroom of the Dumpster in the alley below was unparalleled.

The buzzer to my apartment sounded, and I said, “Hang on a sec.”

I crossed the room and pushed the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Me, actually.” My sister’s voice came out in stereo from my phone and the intercom. Leave it to Annabelle to be that hi-fi.

“You’re here?” I asked.

“Obvy,” Annabelle said. “I started over right after you ditched me.”

“Oh.” I refused to feel bad, and hit the button to unlock the door. “Come on up.”

“Thanks.” Annabelle ended the call, and I opened my door.

She bounced up the staircase, not even breathing heavily when she arrived. I frowned. I’d lived here for five years, and I still huffed and puffed my way to the second-floor landing. I stepped aside, allowing my sister to enter, and then shut and locked the door. Annabelle slipped off her purple wool coat and tossed it onto an empty chair. Annoying. I picked it up and hung it on the door hook reserved for guests.

When I turned around, Annabelle had flopped onto the couch in full sprawl. Dressed in black leggings, black ankle boots, and an oversized dark-gray tunic sweater, with her long dark curls framing her face, she looked like a spider. I knew this wasn’t a nice comparison, but I was still steamed at my sister right now so whatever.

I returned to our conversation. “How long have you known?”

“I helped Dad pick the ring,” she said. Her voice was soft, as though if she whispered, then I wouldn’t go berserk. Yeah, that was a solid no. Annabelle ran the side of her index finger over her eyelashes, back and forth. It was her tell that she was stressed. I didn’t care. Annabelle should be stressed—in fact, she should be downright petrified.

“And when did that happen?” I growled. I turned on my heel and stomped into the kitchenette.

“I don’t know.” Annabelle dropped her hand and shrugged.

“When?” My teeth were gritted, making my jaw ache. I held up a coffee mug in silent question. Annabelle nodded.

“I think it was a couple of days ago,” she said, but her voice went up as if it were a question.

It wasn’t a question. She knew what day they’d bought the ring. She was trying to soften the blow, meaning it was going to hurt my feelings. I braced