Page 92 of This Spells Love

And there is something I can do about it.

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“I need sometough love.” I stand on Kiersten’s front doorstep, two lattes in hand, smelling like a sad campfire.

She doesn’t take the coffee. Or invite me in. Instead, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Gems, but I’m on my way out and can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

She turns around as if our conversation is over but leaves the front door ajar. I ignore her words and follow her back inside. She clearly hasn’t heard about what happened yet.

Everything about Kiersten’s house is the same as in my timeline. On her wall is the picture of a cow that Riley drew with a Sharpie when he was five. Kierst framed it instead of painting over it. Sitting on top of the television is thelive, laugh, lovesign that she got from Trent’s mother for her first wedding anniversary. I would bet a million dollars it says “Cry, Drink, Fuck” on the back, written in the very same Sharpie as Riley’s wall picture.

It also smells the same. Pancakes and coffee. If I close my eyes and clear my mind, I can almost pretend that I’m back in my own timeline. That I haven’t fucked everything up.

“This is an emergency, and I need you to tell me what to do.”

Again, she ignores me, hopping around on one heeled shoe as she searches through a pile of mismatched runners and rubber boots.

“Seriously, Gems. I have somewhere I need to be. I promise I will call you later, but right now, I’ve got to go.”

She pulls her missing shoe from the pile and slides it on. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she ruffles her roots with her fingers and then grabs her car keys from the shelf next to the door, shoving them in her purse.

She’s not getting it. I’ve unraveled the tapestry. I’ve fucked up the space-time continuum, and Dax is paying the price.

“There’s been a fire.” My voice wavers as I say it, but it doesn’t have the desired effect. She reaches past me to open the door, ignoring that I’m having a third-degree meltdown in her front hall.

“I know,” she calls over her shoulder. “Aunt Livi called me. It’s awful, and I hope Dax is okay, but if I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late.”

Desperation floods my veins, and I launch myself after her, grabbing her arm. “Kiersten. I need you.”

She wheels around, gripping both my shoulders. She stares hard and unwavering into my eyes.

“No, Gemma.” The harshness of her tone feels like a slap. “You can’t just show up on my doorstep and expect that I’m available to drop everything because you need to vent. I love you. I’m sorry this sucks. But you need to figure it out on your own or hold on ’til later because I can’t right now.”

She doesn’t wait for my response. She marches out the front door and down the front walk to her driveway, not even stopping when I run out after her.

“But I brought coffee.”

She looks up. I would say she’s praying, but Kiersten is as atheist as they come.

“Get in the car.”

She climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. I’m too stunned to move until she starts backing down the driveway, and I have to sprint to catch up, flinging open the passenger door just before she hits the street.

“What is wrong with you?” I yell as we speed down her street with my door still open.

“I told you. I have a meeting. We have exactly fourteen minutes before we get there, so start talking. Because you are not coming in there with me.”

“Where are you going?”

I finally realize that she’s wearing a suit. I have no memory of Kierst wearing anything that formal. Along with black heels and her hair nicely blown out. I think she’s even wearing lipstick.

“I am pitching to a potential client.” She says it like this is something normal she has said before.

“Pitching what? To whom? Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

The light in front of us turns yellow. Kiersten presses the gas and flicks her left blinker. The minivan takes the corner with surprising agility.

“I’ve decided to start my own marketing business,” she says as we exit the intersection. “Nana’s Doughnuts wants to rebrand. They’re getting squeezed out by all of the hipster doughnut shops. They want a new look. A new name. Logo. Everything. I was supposed to meet with them the night you promised to babysit. I guess the virtual meeting wasn’t as shitty as I thought because they liked my pitch. Now it’s down to another independent consultant and me. And I really want to win this thing.”

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