Shipped(10)

I throw my arms out, mostly in a what-the-fuck question, but a thread of delight also snakes its way into my heart. As much as she pushes my crazy buttons, Walsh is still my sister.

And she’s here, standing not ten feet away, wearing denim cutoffs, strappy sandals, and a rose-colored top that hangs loosely off one shoulder. Her golden blond hair is shorter than it was at Christmas, skimming her shoulders in a wavy lob—must be a new cut since it hasn’t shown up on Instagram yet. And she’s added muscle to her long, lean legs. But her heart-shaped face and perfectly straight button nose, which is adorned with a delicate crystal piercing, are the same as always.

The elevator dings. Christina clears her throat. Right, the doors are closing and we’re all still inside. I shove my fist into the void, tripping the sensor to open, and step into the lobby.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, floating toward Walsh as though I’m on a conveyor belt. My heels clack against the tile floor.

My sister stuffs her phone into her back pocket and I don’t miss the flash of strain before she hitches her lips into a beaming grin. In a rush, she bounds forward and throws her arms around my neck. I hug her automatically, still too stunned to fully process.

“What, I need an excuse to visit my big sister?” she murmurs into my hair. And doesn’t let go. Her body is tense, and I catch a quiver as she inhales. What’s up with her? Leaning away, I study her face. Her expression smooths and now all I see is the same old Walsh. Her cornflower eyes flick between me and something behind me. Oh yeah.

“Introductions,” I say, stepping back. “Walsh, this is Tory and Christina. We work together. Guys, this is my sister, Walsh.”

Christina sticks out her hand, but before she can blink, Walsh wraps her in a hug. Christina is not a hugger. She stiffens, mouth twisted into a frown, and awkwardly pats Walsh on the back. I snort in amusement. I can’t help it.

“Great to meet you,” says Walsh.

“Uh-huh,” Christina mutters.

Walsh gives Tory a hug in turn, who takes it in stride. “I didn’t know Henley had a sister. Visiting from out of town?” She nods toward the row of chairs along the far wall, and for the first time, I notice the two massive purple suitcases pushed innocently against the window, a bulging shoulder bag perched on top.

Those are not weekend bags. Those are I’ve-packed-everything-I-own-in-this-world bags. Walsh said she’s moving. Oh no. She’s not… she couldn’t be…

My stomach tumbles like clothes in a hot dryer.

“Not exactly visiting,” says Walsh, shifting her weight.

Rage simmers in my veins. Walsh has some explaining to do. Now. I ball my hand into a fist around my purse strap and face my coworkers. “Guys, I’m sorry about happy hour, but—”

“Happy hour?” chirps Walsh, a hopeful gleam in her eye.

“Yeah, why don’t you join us?” asks Tory. “My wife’s coming too, so you won’t be the only non–Seaquest Adventurer there.”

“Great! But my luggage…” She glances around as if a storage locker is going to magically poof into existence.

I purse my lips. “Come on. The bar’s only a block away. We’ll store your suitcases at my desk and come back for them later. Then we can talk.” I turn to Christina and Tory and give them a tight smile. “Sorry about this. Meet you there?”

“Sure,” says Christina. “See you in a bit.”

I march over to the first suitcase and lurch it to a roll.

Walsh trots after me, lugging the other one. “Henley, I’m sorry—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Or, I don’t know, ask me if this was a good time for an extended visit?”

“I needed to leave Boulder. I figured I could stay with you—”

“Of course you did. You just assumed I’d roll out the red carpet because Princess Walsh has arrived. You know what though? I have a life. And my own problems to deal with. I don’t have time for your bullshit right now.”

Her chin trembles. Goddamn it. I hit the button and the elevator opens.

We pile inside, and I snatch my badge out of my bag and wave it in front of the security sensor before pushing the button for the seventh floor. I blow out a long breath. I don’t look at Walsh. “Why didn’t you just go to Mom and Dad’s?”

“You know why,” she says softly.

Some people would call where we grew up in rural Idaho idyllic. There’s certainly plenty of nature. But not much else, including people, jobs, or any sort of nuanced appreciation for the wider world. Except for our parents, who relish the quiet of rural living, there’s nothing for us there—either one of us.

“And, Henley, I—I need you right now. I need my sister. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming, but I knew you’d be mad and I—” Her words break off like a shard of glass. I jerk my head to look at her. In spite of my frustration, my heart catches in my throat. Big, fat tears are streaking down Walsh’s flushed cheeks. Her face scrunches like a wadded-up napkin and a sob escapes her in a hiccup.

Anger leaves me in a retreating wave. I curl a protective arm around my sister’s shoulders as she visibly chokes back tears the rest of the ride up.

When we reach my floor, I shove her bags against the wall by the empty front desk and steer her into the nearest conference room, which is blessedly unoccupied. The automatic ceiling lights flicker on. As soon as the opaque glass door shuts behind us, I gently grasp her by the shoulders. “What’s going on?”