Page 36 of Sort of Seeing Someone

I may have missed crunchy leaves, but I haven’t missed Liv’s infamousHmm.

“The apartment looks great,” I say, attempting to change the subject entirely.

“Thanks. It’s a condo actually.”

I have no idea what the difference is, but I know Liv does. I know she has researched it, studied it, and is fluent in it like absolutely everything else in which she takes an interest.

Being sisters with someone likeLiv is tough. The attention and adherence to detail is off the charts. But the more I can remind myself it isn’t about her always being right, so much as it is about her always beingexact, the less offense I take to her overall personality.

Before Liv set her sights on baby-making, she was uber-focused on renovating her charming vintage unit. Aesthetically, it’s the complete opposite of Nora’s Crate & Barrel showroom-inspired place. Liv’scondois filled with a montage of cheap thrift store finds and expensive mid-century modern furniture. Telling the difference between the two is the HGTV series we’ve all been waiting for.

When I sense that Olivia is done correcting my every move for the moment, I formally greet her with a kiss on her cheek.

Of the three Miller sisters, Liv is the only naturally dark brunette. She looks like Emilia Clark fromGame of Throneswith the same porcelain skin, a slightly pointed nose, and eyes that can get really small when she genuinely smiles—a gesture that lately comes very infrequently. But right now, she doesn’t look like a television star. She looks like a 1950’s housewife in her light blue apron adorned with bright yellow lemons. At first glance, I can’t tell if this is one of those thrift store buys, or a limited-edition Anthropologie splurge. Either way, it looks fitting on her.

“Is there something I can help with?” I ask.

“Flour doesn’t bode well with an all-black wardrobe and all my other aprons are in the wash, so no. You can sit this one out.”

“I can get your laundry going for you,” I suggest in an effort to earn my one-night keep.

“Do you really think I keep dirty clothes just sitting around? The cycle is running now.”

“Okay. How about—”

“Moonie, just give me five minutes and then we can chat. Sorry, I can’t take my eye off this pot. Homemade caramel sauce is an art. The difference betweenheavenlyandburntis half a second. Literally, half a second,” she reiterates.

At least I heard a ‘sorry’ peppered somewhere in there.

“What are you making? Smells amazing.”

“Oatmeal Carmelitas,” she says back as I give myself a tour of her living room, just on the opposite side of her kitchen island. “Or as I like to call them,Scrumble Bars. Key ingredient: caramel. Most people make these with a store-bought jar of sundae topping. Not me. From scratch, or forget it.”

I can’t quite tell if she’s talking to me, or if she’s filming something for her baking blog. She sounds so rehearsed, so polished. Then again, that’s Liv for you.

“God fucking dammit!” she shouts.

Scratch what I said about rehearsed and polished.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, immediately putting down a coffee table book that definitely belongs to her veterinarian husband—The Encyclopedia of Dogs: Sixth Edition.

I rush over to Liv in the kitchen, fully anticipating a third degree burn on her hands. Instead, my sister is getting redder and redder, but only in the face.

“I don’t understand. I’ve made this a million times. I pulled the butter off the heat at precisely the right time, and it still clumped. It was bubbling a second ago, and now it’s separated and tough. This is bullshit.”

“You can’t…I don’t know…whisk it back to life?” I stare at the amber-colored concoction and make a swirling motion with my hand.

Liv stares back at me, says nothing, then bursts into unexpected tears.

“You think it’s that easy, don’t you? God,everyonedoes. You all just think I can…wave my magic whisk and something so simple—like a homemade biscuit—just pops right out of the oven.”

And we’re officially not talking about baking anymore.

“Well, listen Moonie. Let me be the first to tell you, it’s not always that simple. Sometimes you have to…freeze the butter before you can bake them. Or…preheat the oven a little longer than you anticipated. Sometimes you have to inject it…with other flavors. Sometimes…people will tell you to give up on homemade biscuits altogether and just buy some pre-packaged rolls instead—likethat’swhat you’ve been dreaming about your whole life. And sometimes…you can follow all the steps of a recipe you’ve made a hundred times and it still turns out…awful.”

At that, Liv stomps her foot onto the opener of her stainless-steel trashcan and drops the pot of burnt caramel into the trash. Not just caramel itself, the entire pot. I have a feeling that was the Le Creuset Nora and I went halfsies on for her thirtieth birthday.

“Is Ted home?” I ask, ensuring the coast is clear for my sister to be a blubbering mess without her nose-in-a-textbook husband coming into frame. She shakes her head no and tells me he’s at a conference about dog flu. I love Ted, I really do. And I love TedforLiv. But if he can’t look something up in the index of an encyclopedia, he’s generally not able to offer free flowing compassion about it. It’s best that he’s not here right now.

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