Page 4 of Fairground

Without even glancing up, she asks, “Where were you?”

No hello. Just straight to the interrogation. Classic Laken.

“Trying to find some decent coffee in this town,” I reply, closing the door behind me.

“And? Did you find it?”

“Tragically, no.”

She finally looks up, giving me a classicLakeneye roll, the kind only an older sister can truly master. Then she goes right back to folding like she’s performing eye surgery on the clothing, all clean cut lines and no wrinkles.

Another pant leg gets crossed, tucked, and added to the growing stack before she collapses backward into the couch cushion. She lets out a sigh and drapes an arm protectively over the laundry mound like it’s her third child.

“I don’t know why you’re so picky about coffee,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re not in Charlotte anymore. This is small-town America. You get what you get.”

“Yeah, well, small-town charm doesn’t exactly make up for bad coffee,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes.

She snorts a laugh. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll learn to lower your standards.”

Touché, Laken. Touché. Probably good advice for me to take into everything in my life right now.

“Sit,” she commands. It’s not a question and I know despite how little I want to have this conversation; there's no fighting it when she has that older sister look in her eye. The last time I saw it was when she told me my college boyfriend was a total douche and going nowhere in life. She wasn’t wrong, I’m pretty sure he’s still‘figuring things out,’despite being out of school for six years now, but still, a lecture from her without any caffeine in my system sounds like a special kind of sisterly torture.

I take a very slow, dramatically tentative seat in the only other free chair in their small living room, completely avoiding the couch.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“We need to talk before I head into work.”

Ah here we go.

I brace myself for her to tell me how everything I’m doing is wrong and what she’d do differently to suck a little less. Most times, it’s just easier to endure it than try to counter any of her points. How I ever got into politics, where people talk just to hear their voices and rarely care if anyone’s listening, I have no idea.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always enjoyed working on the campaign and marketing side of things. Making persuasive content to encourage others to vote a certain way, demonstrating the difference my candidate can make in a citizen’s world, that's the kind of things I enjoy doing.

Not sitting and listening to lectures or defending my sometimes shitty decisions.

I zone out, staring out the bay windows of her living room at the leaves that are already orange on the large, oak tree in her backyard while I think about what the hell I’m going to do to pass my time while living here temporarily. I can't imagine spending all my evenings with Laken and my nephews. I mean, I love them, but I need to be doing something more with my free time.

Her voice fades in, catching on the last line.

“...the other day, Felix told me you came downstairs and into the kitchen to get their breakfast ready before school and you were dress in all black, muttering, 'ah, another day, another darkness. The horrors persist.'”

I snort despite my sister's obvious displeasure over my comment.Fucking, Felix.Six years old and way too damn observant.

“I'd like to point out that I'm always wearing all black," I gesture to my black leggings and black long-sleeved athletic wear shirt I put on to go to the gym later. "And also, the horrorsdopersist.”

Laken rolls her eyes dramatically and lets out a huff. “You’ve been moping around for two weeks since you moved here, haven’t gone out and done anything fun. So, what, you lost your job? Plenty of people do every day. You’ve changed jobs like a dozen times over the last decade.”

Um, rude, only eight times.

"Find a new job that you can work while the boys are at school to keep you occupied," she continues.

"May I point out that I also clean your house, do the laundry and prepare dinner while they are at school," I try to interject.

She raises a brow that calls me on my shit. Yes, I do clean the house but I fucking hate doing the laundry which explains why there's a mound of it freshly folded at her hands sitting next to her on the couch.

"Okay, I'll start doing the laundry," I correct myself as she lets out another sigh.

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