“That’s because I’m really good at pretending.” She took a long sip of her shake. “But sometimes at three in the morning, I lie awake and think about how I’m almost thirty and I work at a job I don’t care about and I’ve never been in love and what if that’s just... it? What if this is all it ever is?”
She drove us to the 24-hour diner on the edge of town, the one with the cracked vinyl booths and the waitress who calls everyone “hon.” We sat in the back corner, and Vicky ordered us both milkshakes—strawberry for her, chocolate for me—and then she didn’t say anything for a full ten minutes. She just let me sit there, stirring my shake with a straw, watching the rain finally stop outside the window.
That was three months ago. Three months of living with my younger sister, and I still hadn’t decided if it was the worst or best decision of my life. The first week, I hated it. living with vicky
“Where are we going?”
I’m not good at talking. Vicky knows this. She’s always known. The thing about Vicky is that she feels everything at full volume. Joy, sadness, anger—it all comes out the same way: loud, messy, and honest. When she’s happy, she laughs so hard she snorts, and then laughs harder at the snort. When she’s sad, she doesn’t hide it. She cries openly, ugly-cries with red eyes and wet cheeks, and she lets you hold her until it passes. “That’s because I’m really good at pretending
She catches me looking and grins. “What?”
“I know,” I said.
“Just get in the car.”