Page 17 of If My Wishes Came True
“How are things with you?” I ask Christy, to take the heatoff me.
“The usual,” she says. “I just signed a new client. I’m up to my eyeballs in manuscripts.”
“I guess that’s to be expected when you’re the star agent at Hanover Literary.”
She scoffs. “Hardly the star. I’m just trying to keep my head above water. My entire life is basically work, and training for the marathon. Kyle and I are about to go for a run in Central Park.”
I smile wistfully. “It’s sweet that you always run together.”
My sister met her boyfriend, Kyle, junior year of college, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. Right after graduation, they moved into a tiny apartment in the East Village, where they’ve been living for the last six years. The only reason they aren’t already married is because they can’t yet afford Christy’s dream wedding at the New York Public Library.
She’s quiet for several seconds before she responds. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you had someone to go for runs with in the morning?”
“I prefer yoga,” I say casually, because I know it’ll annoy her.
My sister sighs, already exasperated with me (it doesn’t take much). “You know what I mean, Jenna.”
“Andyouknow that I don’t like talking about this stuff with you, Christy.”
“All I want is for my big sister to be happy. Why does that offend you so much?”
“Because you don’t think I can be happy unless I’m in a serious relationship. But you’re wrong. Being single isn’t the end of the world. You only think it is because you’ve been with the same person for eight years. That’s practically your entireadulthood so far. Would you even know how to navigate life on your own?”
“This isn’t about me. I’m happy. You’re not.”
“Who says I’m not happy?” I snap back, more defensively than I wanted to.
“You’re my sister. Iknowyou. You’ve always dreamed of being in love. You’re the girl who picked Mom’s roses and made me scatter the petals on our driveway, so you could walk down it in that incredible dress you designed out of toilet paper. And that was only the beginning.”
I scoff. “I was a kid playing make-believe, Christy.”
“But every game you played starred you as the blushing bride. And it wasn’t only when you were little…” She pauses to clear her throat, a nervous habit she inherited from our dad. “I found the diary you kept in high school.”
“I never had a diary,” I tell her, matter-of-factly. The only writing I ever did was for school, and that was bad enough. I never would have chosen to write for fun.
“Well, maybediaryisn’t the right word. It was a journal. With drawings in it.”
My eyes go wide.
I look in the mirror, and my face is turning bright pink.
“Oh my god! You went through my things?!”
“What else was I supposed to do while my gorgeous big sister was out on dates? Your life was so much more exciting than mine.”
It breaks my heart that Christy grew up feeling insecure because of me. While I got our mom’s features, she got our dad’s. But even though his personality leaves a lot to be desired,there’s no denying he’s a handsome man. And Christy—who’s taller than I am, with long auburn hair and brown eyes—is absolutely beautiful. She just was never a blonde cheerleader. I’ve tried telling my sister a million times that looking like Barbie isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but I still think she’d trade looks with me in a heartbeat.
That doesn’t justify her rummaging through my stuff, though.
“You had no right to look at my journal, no matter how bored you were,” I tell her. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now, anyway. I don’t even remember what was in it.”
The truth is, I know precisely what the notebook contains, because it’s right here, in my nightstand. I just don’t want Christy to know how special it is to me.
My sister clears her throat. “It was sort of like a…graphic novel. But without any words. Just drawings.Beautifuldrawings, of a man and a woman meeting and falling in love. Going for walks with coffee, and cooking dinner together, and traveling around the world. You put so much time into it, Jenna—there’s no way you could have forgotten.”
I attempt a giggle, but it sounds forced. “They were doodles. Something to pass the time when I was bored, because I couldn’t paint. Drawing was the next best thing.”
Christy sighs again. “They weren’t just doodles. They werewishes.Those drawings were everything you used to wish for?—”
