Unbroken

in the magazine-perfect décor. The place has been done in a modern, minimalist style—all low white couches and weird chrome end-tables. It looks sterile and spotless, like nobody actually lives here, but I’m not surprised. Carina has always cared more about what’s on the surface than anything going on underneath.
    It’s hard to believe we’re sisters, or even related at all. We were never close, even as kids growing up she would tease or just plain ignore me. She was part of the most popular cliques in junior high and high school, whereas I always drifted on the edge of the crowd. It wasn’t like I was a social reject or anything—I had my friends—but we all preferred to hang out in our families’ basements listening to music and watching movies, while her groups were off out on dates and at football games and parties. I used to wish she would confide in me more, and let me into her life, even just a little. It felt like she was a stranger who just happened to be living in the same house as me, barely looking my direction except to scorn.
    After mom died, I even found myself hoping it might bring us closer together. She was the only other person who might understand what I was going through, after all. But Carina didn’t want to talk, or even dwell on it for a minute. She was booked on a big post-college trip around Europe with her girlfriends, at the end of summer. She left the week after we buried mom, and never even emailed me. I read about all her adventures online, whole albums full of smiling, happy photographs posed in front of the Eiffel Tower and Italian beaches, like nothing was wrong.
    And meanwhile, I was drowning in grief, too wretched to even get out of bed. I know it must have been her way of dealing. Hell, I had my share of denial that fall too. But something in me snapped after that, I guess—I gave up the hope we’d ever be sisters, the way I saw my friends act with theirs: easy, and loving, and safe.
    I’ve fallen behind the others. I shake off the old memories and go through the formal dining room and into the kitchen. “There are five settings,” I notice, on my way. “Are we having anyone else…?”
    My words die on my lips as I turn into the kitchen and I see who’s standing with Daniel and Carina in the corner.
    “Hello, pumpkin.”
    It’s my dad. He’s wearing his usual outfit of corduroy pants and an Oxford shirt under his tweed jacket, gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose. The perfect picture of an eccentric British academic. He raises his glass to me. It’s almost empty, I notice, and wonder if it’s his first, or his fifth.
    But then, it wouldn’t matter. It’s the ninth and the tenth drink we have to worry about.
    “Dad.” I do my best to keep my voice even, but my jaw is clenched tight. My heart-rate kicks. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
    “Just got in a few days ago,” he says, cheerfully oblivious to the way I fold my arms across my chest and stand there, tense as hell. “I was going to see some friends in New York, but when Danny here called, I thought I’d put them off and see my girls.”
    My girls. The way he acts like he gives a damn what I’m doing would be enough to turn my stomach, but I latch onto the other part of what he said. Daniel called him?
    I look at him, horrified, but Daniel is chatting to Carina about her kitchen remodel, and doesn’t seem to notice a thing.
    “We just had the whole thing redone,” Carina is saying. She gestures around at the professional range and granite countertops like a game-show hostess.
    “It’s great,” Daniel nods.
    “What was wrong with the old one?” I ask.
    Carina widens her eyes. “Oh my god, you should have seen it. They had marble countertops, and laminate wood flooring!”
    The tone of her voice implies these are serious crimes. I have to hide my eye-roll.
    Carina’s as bad as my dad when it comes to wasting money away on pretty, useless things. For him, it’s expensive vacations, five hundred dollar dinners, and handmade British suits. For her, it’s interior design and designer clothes. I don’t understand how they can live like this: relying on loans and credit cards, and whatever rich friends will foot the bill. There are always strings attached to that kind of thing, but dad and Carina act like they’re entitled to it, somehow.
    Mom was always the one trying desperately to keep dad in check and make ends meet, but now that she’s gone, Dad flits around, staying too long