Page 54 of Idle

“More like the man who built it.” She takes a seat next to me. As in, right next to me. Cuddled up against my body next to me.

“What are we doing, Paige?” A dalliance, I can do. Been there many times. Anything more? My life isn’t set up for that.

“I’m having a wonderful time with you.” She adds, “Talking.”

We don’t need to nearly be in each other’s laps to talk. I shift my body to put some distance between us.

She places her hand over my heart. “That about covers my family. Tell me about yours. I remember you had a sister who died when you were fourteen.”

“Diana. She was seventeen, all set to go to Fordham in the fall and major in business.”

She sips her red wine. “Do you have any other siblings?”

“No.”

“Where did you go to college?”

My lips twist. “Fordham. Majored in business.”

“Oh wow. I can see you two were close since you followed in her footsteps. Her death must’ve been hard.”

I never talk about Diana to other people, preferring to keep her bottled inside myself. My therapist said I could tell everyone or no one, my choice. I’ve never been tempted to share. Paige doesn’t pry but somehow compels me to divulge details about my vivacious sister. “She was a lot like you. Outgoing. Friendly. Wicked sense of humor.”

Her hand strokes my cheek. “I bet I would’ve liked her.”

“I think so.”

“Did she have,” she swallows. “Cancer?”

“No.” I pull away from her touch. Ineverdiscuss this with anyone. Sure, I make donations to MADD every opportunity I can, but I don’t advertise this fact.

“Oh. A car accident then?”

How is this woman so perceptive? I suppose these are the two leading causes of death among young people, besides gun violence. And if she were a victim of a mass shooting, Paige probably would’ve heard her name. I stand. “Yes,” I croak. Tipping my head back, I finish my beer and go to the kitchen to get rid of the can. Conversation closed.

From the sofa, she says, “That’s awful.”

Apparently, I was wrong. I toss my empty can into the recycle bin beside the pizza box. “It was a long time ago.”

“I can see it still affects you. I’m a good listener.”

I march back to the living room and sit in a chair this time. She can’t crowd me here. I purse my lips and stare at her artwork covering the fake television.

“Was she handy, like you?”

When I don’t respond, she asks, “Did she have a keen eye for design?”

Still without my participation she barrels forward. “I bet she made you go to tea parties when you were a toddler.” She chuckles. “I always wanted a little brother to do that to.” After a pause, she adds, “Or a sister.”

Her last comment forces me to reply. “She tried when I was six. She passed me the teacup and it was empty. I remember flipping it upside down and yelling she drank my tea. Marge came in and had to console me.”

“Did your mother give you any tea?”

“Yup. With extra ice, the way I liked it.” I smile at the memory she unlocked. “Still do.”

“Note to self. Make sure to have enough ice cubes for Jesse’s iced tea.”

Another fun memory about Diana resurfaces. And another. I don’t stop to think about it, but simply share the good times I had with her. All the laughter. She was a great big sister, and we had so many adventures.

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