Page 3 of The Comeback Summer

I open my sock drawer, then freeze. It looks like a raccoon has rifled through it, and my compression socks are missing—the ones I special ordered because they improve circulation and help prevent calf cramping.

Libby.

My jaw clenched in frustration, I head across the hall to my sister’s bedroom and open the door an inch, peering into the darkness. A Libby-shaped lump is buried under a mountain of blankets on the bed, various tchotchkes crowding thenightstand and dresser. On the floor near the foot of her bed are my socks.

Unfortunately, my sister’s demon cat is perched right on top of them, his yellow eyes glinting. Libby named him Mr.Darcy because he’s “aloof and proud with a heart of gold.” More like vicious and cunning with a heart of malice, if you ask me. And whenever Libby takes my things, her cat guards them fiercely, for no reason other than spite.

I tiptoe into the room, careful not to wake my sister—she needs her sleep to cope with the inevitable stress we’ll face today—and creep toward the dark gray cat, reaching carefully toward my socks. We lock eyes, staring at each other like two cowboys in a showdown duel. I don’t even dare breathe.

Lightning fast, he swipes out a paw, and I yelp, pulling back in pain.

“Damn you to hell,” I whisper.

He hisses.

In her bed, my sister stirs. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting my socks, thief,” I say. “And your devil cat just scratched me to the bone.”

“C’mere, Mr.Darcy,” she says, patting her bed. The cat jumps up and curls next to her, gazing at me with a smug expression.

Wincing at the pain in my hand, I straighten up. “Stop stealing my running socks. It’s not my fault you haven’t done your laundry in three weeks.”

Her muffled voice comes from under her covers: “My feet were cold last night.”

“Because you put the AC down to sixty-two!” It’s true; I woke up shivering in bed.

“I sleep better in cool temperatures.”

“Says the woman with six blankets piled on her,” I mutter under my breath. “Don’t you care about reducing our carbon footprint?”

Libby responds by giving an exaggerated fake snore, a not-so-subtle hint that she wants me to leave.

I roll my eyes and head out, then pause at the door, remembering Libby’s devastated expression yesterday when she realized that UnderRooneys had dropped us. Like it washerfailure, even though it was out of our control. She was a ball of worry after that, but she kept a smile on her face. SoIwouldn’t be worried.

My big sister. She carries so much weight on her shoulders.

“I’ll be back in an hour with a sugar-free vanilla latte and a muffin,” I say in a quiet voice.

There’s a pause. Then, from under the covers: “You’re the best.” Another pause. “And I’ll borrow your regular socks next time.”

I smile as I close the door behind me. Yes, she can drive me insane, but I wouldn’t want to live with anyone but my sister—and I wouldn’t want to run a business with anyone else, either.

•••

I RUN EASTdown shaded streets lined with redbrick homes and apartment buildings, appreciating the beauty of our neighborhood. Lakeview is within walking distance of the Lincoln Park Zoo, Wrigley Field, delicious restaurants—and just a short bus ride from our office.

My hair is piled in a fat bun (no ponytails while running; too easy for a murderer to grab) and I’m wearing my bone-conduction headphones so I can listen to a podcast while alsohearing what’s going on around me (don’t want to get flattened by a bus or kidnapped by human traffickers).

Right now, the hosts of my favorite podcast,Murder on the Mind, are telling the story of Lori Hacking, a Utah woman whose husband lied about being in med school, then killed her when she discovered the truth. They’re getting to the good part, describing the bloodstained knife that Mark Hacking used to cut up their mattress to hide evidence.

Libby thinks my true crime obsession is the cause of my neurotic tendencies. But I like to remind her that correlation is not causation, and I actually feel calmer when I listen to these podcasts. She’s tried to get me to read romance like she does, but the endings ruin it for me every time. Too perfect, tied up in a neat little bow.

Real life isn’t like that; as children of divorce, we know that all too well. Libby says that’s the point: romance novels are comfort reads. No matter how bad things get, there’s a guaranteed happy ending. But I like true crime because itdoesn’talways tie up neatly. It’s gritty, complicated, and most of all, real.

The street ends and there she is, Lake Michigan, turquoise water stretching as far as the eye can see. I can’t help smiling at the beauty. Summer in Chicago is our collective reward for surviving another freezing winter; everyone bursts out of hibernation to fill the beaches, cheer at baseball games, go to street festivals and farmers’ markets.

Turning south, I head toward the skyscrapers of downtown. When I catch sight of our office building, all my worries rush back:How will we pay Scott? How will we pay ourselves? What if we end up homeless and living on the streets, mugged and beaten and left for dead?

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