Shipped(11)

Her red-rimmed eyes search my face. “You… you were right. I got fired.”

“Again?”

“God, why do you have to say it like that? I know I’m a screwup, okay? Not everyone is perfect like you.” Turning, she collapses into the nearest office chair, arms sprawled over the armrests.

Of all the days for my baby sister to show up on my doorstep midmeltdown, why did she have to pick today? I slide into the seat next to her and force my jaw to unclench. “I’m not perfect. And you’re not a screwup. What happened?”

She lifts and lowers one shoulder. “I missed an appointment I had with a client last week. It was the third time it happened, so Massage Spot gave me the boot.”

“Don’t you have that calendar app? I showed you how to set reminders so you get notifications. Why aren’t you using it?”

“I know, I know. I just forget. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Why move though? You could always find another job. Weren’t you seeing that guy… Kevin?”

“Keith.” She spits the word the same way you might say “vomit.” “He turned out to be an asshole. There’s nothing left for me in Boulder. Not anymore.”

I blow out a long breath. “Well, good thing I have a pull-out couch. You can stay with me and Noodles until you figure out your next move. And at least now I’ll have a built-in cat sitter.”

She sits up straighter. “Why do you need a cat sitter? Are you going somewhere?”

“On a work trip, but not for a couple weeks.”

“A cruise?”

I shift my weight. “Yeah.”

“Where to?”

“The Galápagos.”

She tilts her head. “Is that where people have traces of an extinct human species in their DNA? Near Australia?”

“You’re thinking Papua New Guinea. No, the Galápagos Islands are off the coast of Ecuador in South America. You know… Darwin? Finches? Giant tortoises?”

“Ahhh yes. Okay, got it.” She fiddles with the slim gold necklace tucked into her shirt, but then her head snaps up. “Can I come?”

I was afraid of this. “No. It’s a work trip. And look, if you’re planning on staying in Seattle for any length of time, you need to focus on finding a job. Maybe even two jobs, if you want to make ends meet until you figure out something more permanent.”

“We’ll see. I still have to finish my yoga training.”

I open my mouth to speak. Close it. I desperately want to lecture her about, I don’t know, being a halfway credible adult? But then the tear tracks on her cheek stop me and I’m reminded why she’s here. She needs me.

I smile and hope it doesn’t look too forced. “We’ll start job hunting tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” She pushes to her feet. Even though her legs are wobbly, she’s already regaining some of her old Walsh swagger. “I could sure use that drink now.”

Straightening my skirt, I stand with a nod. “Me too.”





4




Michelle’s pregnant!”

Tory’s big news. A piercing collective of squeals and exclamations meets her pronouncement that’s quickly swallowed by the bar’s noisy chatter.

“Oh my God, you’re going to be moms? You’re going to be moms! Congratulations!” I jump out of my chair and round the small circular table to give Tory, then Michelle, a squeeze.

Returning to my chair, I swirl the ice cubes around my empty glass. We’ve been here barely an hour but I’m on my second drink and I already need another one. Christina echoes my congrats. “I had no idea you guys went ahead with the IVF.”

“We were going to wait until I made partner at the firm,” says Michelle, pushing a tight coil of black hair behind her ear before threading her fingers with Tory’s on top of the table. “But we found a donor we liked. We went for it, and it took.”

Walsh shoves to her feet. “This calls for a round of shots!” I’ve never heard a baby announcement met with shots before, but okay.

She turns to me. “Henley, a hand?” I sigh. This must be all part of the fun-loving, crazy Walsh mask she’s fastened into place for the evening.

Threading through the crowd to the bar, we squeeze into a spot next to a raucous mix of young professionals and a pair of older women. All the barstools are occupied, so we stand.

“What’s eating you?” asks Walsh as we rest our elbows on the smooth wooden surface, waiting for one of the bartenders to acknowledge our presence.

“What do you mean?” I try to catch the bartender’s eye and fail. He’s mixing some sort of tiki drink, the bar’s specialty.

Walsh gives me a look. “Be real. Something’s up with you that has nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t everything have to do with you?”

“Usually. But come on, I know you. Spill.”

One of the bartenders comes over—a twentysomething with a flamboyant, nineteenth-century mustache. He lifts two full martini glasses and sets them on the bar in front of us, forearm muscles rippling beneath full-sleeve tattoos. The drinks are yellow-pink and frothy with blueberries floating on top.

“We didn’t order these,” I say.