Page 6 of One Week Wingman

I laugh at the sight. “What is this?” I ask, descending the steps to join her. “Do I need to call an ambulance. Are you having an episode?”

She grins, clambering to her feet. She’s dressed in muddy overalls, her usual garden uniform. “I couldn’t find any of my headscarves, so I’m improvising.”

“You don’t improvise in public?” I check, teasing.

“Hush you, I haven’t lost my marbles just yet!” She scoops me into a warm hug. “Was the drive OK?”

“The same as ever,” I reply. “What are you planting?” The garden is gorgeous as ever, bursting with color and life.

“I’m not,” she says, pulling the panties off her head and running a hand back through her short silver-grey hair. “I’m weeding. Daisy and Phil are still out, so you freshen up and I’ll make us a cold drink.”

“OK,” I agree. “Something cold sounds great.”

“It’s so good to have you home!” She hugs me again, and just when I’m thinking that I could come visit more often, she looks me up and down, her smile slipping. “It’s just a shame about Stefano.”

“Uh huh!” I murmur vaguely.

A shame he’s not real.

I head inside, and go unpack my things in my old bedroom, aka the craft-room-slash-yoga gym-slash-candle-making studio, depending on my mom’s hobby of the month. The minute I left for college, they tossed my stuff into the attic, and renovated like I’d never lived there at all.

Daisy’s room, of course, they never touched. It’s still decorated in her pastel, frilly curtains, and walls full of her perfect, beaming pictures. Cheerleading. Debate team. She even placed third in a Junior Miss Connecticut pageant, the year I graduated college. The pageant finals were the same weekend as my graduation, so only my mom made it to my ceremony—and checked her phone for updates the entire time.

Do I sound bitter? Maybe. Daisy and I have a… complicated relationship. I was thirteen when my mom remarried, and Daisy and Phil moved in. She’s four years younger than me, and a real sweetheart; her mom had passed away, when she was a toddler, and she was thrilled to have a new mom and a big sister. But let’s just say, it’s no fun being a tall, nerdy bookworm with zero coordination and a penchant for black clothing, when your younger sister is a perky blonde perfectionist who wins prizes for being adored by all.

No, really, they made her a plaque and everything.

We grew closer once I moved out and had some room to breathe (and figure out a non-Goth sense of personal style), but while I was busy dropping out of law school and generally making a failure of my life, Daisy was taking over the world. Because my sister is, well, internet famous. Her Instagram account is like a thirst-trap for cozy Connecticut living, and her fans can’t get enough. Steaming cups of coffee on a cold winter’s day. Splashing in the creek in the summer sun. She’s got brand deals and sponsorship up the wazoo, and she even bought her own fixer-upper here in town last year, which she’s renovating—and posting every step of the way.

Not that she’s doing any of the work herself—manual labor is not Daisy’s strong point—but you wouldn’t know it from her artful selfies in varnish-stained dungarees, hair tied up with a rag, an adorable smudge of paint on her cheekbone.

I used to have to come home to feel like I didn’t measure up to her. Now I just have to open my phone and check my feed.

“Roxy, honey?” My mom calls up the stairs. “Phil forgot to pick up the steaks. Can you run to the store?”

“Sure thing!” I call back and send Nita a quick text.‘Have the wine on ice – I’m going to need it!’

When I get downstairs, I find Mom is waiting for me, with a long grocery list. “I figured, since you’re stopping in, you could pick up a few things…”

“A few, huh?” I grin.

“Or I can send it along to Phil,” she adds. “And we can sitdown and have a proper catch-up. I want to hearallabout what you and Stefano have been up to.”

Errands or the Spanish inquisition about my fake boyfriend? It’s no contest.

“I don’t mind heading to the store!” I blurt quickly, taking the list. “I’m happy to help.”

Mom stops me to smooth my hair back. “There. You look so much prettier with it out of your eyes. Oh, and don’t forget the pie!”

Pearson’s,the grocery store in town, never changes. And I mean it: There’s a pack of Pepperidge Farm cookies in back that I swear has been there since I was in elementary school. I grab a basket and browse the aisles, picking out everything on Mom’s list. But I haven’t made it past Chips and Crackers when I’m cornered by Mr. Pearson himself.

“Roxanne!” he greets me, beaming. “Long time, no see! Back for the reunion?”

“That’s right,” I smile. “

“And how are things in the city?” he asks expectantly. “What are you up to these days?”

I pause. “Still bartending,” I say brightly.

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