“About whether I’m up for seeing Sophie tonight, with absolutely no warning whatsoever.”
“Why do you need warning?” she says. “I mean, what’s the difference? Now or next month?”
“I just wish we had discussed it together.”
“That’s what we’re doing now,” she says. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what? Why does everything have to be exactly on your terms?”
“It doesn’t,” I say, thinking of how many times she’s called me a control freak for simply having an opinion that differs from hers. “I just—”
“You just what, Meredith? Why are you always so dissatisfied with me?” She stands and looks down at me, her hands shoved into her pockets.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Yes, you are. And so are Mom and Dad….God. I’m sorry I’m not perfect like you and Daniel,” she says, stalking away from me.
I get up and quickly catch up to her. “Could you stop it with the pity party?”
She stops and glowers at me. “It’s not a pity party at all,” she says. “I’m just sick and tired of your constant judgment. I’m here this weekend to talk about Daniel….That’s why I reached out to Sophie. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Can’t you see that?”
I stare at her, fleetingly seeing things her way. But like Rubin’s famous optical illusion, I quickly return to my view, that white vase so much more obvious than the dual black profiles. “Okay,” I say, giving in. “Text her back. Tell her we’ll meet her for dinner.”
“Is that what you really want?” she asks, as it occurs to me that she could be calling my bluff. Hoping that I’m the one who will decide against seeing Sophie.
Instead, I give her a breezy shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
chapter twenty-seven
JOSIE
I should have known Meredith would find a way to be pissed off at me for contacting Sophie. It had actually crossed my mind to vet it with her first, but then I thought—no, I should just be proactive, handle something on my own for once. Besides, I really didn’t expect Sophie to reply so quickly. I thought there was a very good chance she wouldn’t respond until next week, which would mean I’d get credit with Mom and Mere for reaching out to her without actually having to endure yet another emotional encounter.
Then, last night, when I got Sophie’s response, I didn’t want to bring up anything heavy when Meredith and I were having such a good time, joking and laughing and bonding. It felt so nice and natural—the way I see so many other sisters getting along. I just wanted to savor it, especially given the dread I felt over my impending confession and the very real possibility that Meredith will never forgive me for my role in Daniel’s accident.
But of course my strategy backfired, and as we walk through the park, I watch her do a complete one-eighty, her mood going from cheerful to dour in record time.
“All right,” she briskly announces. “I’m ready to head home.”
“Now?” I say, thinking that I wanted to shop a bit more on the way back.
“Yeah. But you don’t have to come with me,” she says, slipping into full-on passive-aggressiveness. “You know your way.”
I shake my head, knowing she will only hold that against me, too, and can practically script her rant. How can you go shopping at a time like this?
And really, she’d be right. That magical Manhattan feeling quickly dissipates as I process that I now have not one, but two big things to dread. “No, I’ll go back with you,” I insist.
She nods, quickening her pace as we head west through the park, the opposite direction from which we came.
“Why are we going this way?” I ask, practically jogging to keep up.
“This is the way to the subway.”
“Oh. You don’t want to walk back?”
“No. I want to take the subway.”
“Well, all righty, then,” I mumble.
A silent, sullen fifteen-minute journey later, we enter the subway station at Fifty-Seventh and Seventh, dipping underground, then standing in more silence on the dank platform.
“Look,” I finally say, mouth-breathing to avoid the stench of urine and garbage. “We really don’t have to see Sophie tonight. We can tell her we have plans. We can tell her we’ll do it another time….”
“No. It’s fine,” she says—which, with Meredith, means it’s not fine, but she’s going to play the martyr.
“So you want to go?” I confirm.
“I said yes. It’s fine.”
I look at her, frustration welling inside me. “I just don’t see why you’re so mad at me,” I say, as a train roars toward us.
“I’m not mad,” she shouts back at me over the vibrating clamor of metal on metal.
“Okay. What are you, then?” I ask, as the train screeches to a halt and we board a mostly empty car. She waits for me to sit, then chooses a seat diagonally across from me. “What are you then?” I repeat.
When she still doesn’t answer, I offer her a multiple choice. “Upset? Annoyed? Frustrated?”