Page 42 of The Comeback Summer

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she says. “I never got this many matches when I was on the apps.”

I catch a note of hurt in her voice. My sister is the loveliest, most generous, most creative human in the world. And she’s objectively gorgeous—all luscious soft curves and creamy skin. She’s been hurt by some truly awful guys, though.

“Any man who overlooks you is missing out,” I tell her. “Remember:If someone treats you badly, it’s a reflection on them, not on you.”

That’s something GiGi used to say. Libby recognizes it, and her eyes fill with tears. “I’ll keep looking.”

I go back to my spreadsheet, and when I glance over again, I see Libby working on the pitch deck for one of the few prospective clients that agreed to a meeting with us. On impulse, I roll over to her desk and take a closer look at her computer screen. The press kit she’s working on is good, but there’s something missing.

“What if we mocked this up to show how the headline would appear in a newspaper, on Facebook, and on Instagram?” I suggest.

“No, that won’t work,” Libby says without looking at me.

I swallow and try not to feel like my idea is a pesky fly she’sflicked away. “We could try and visualize how the campaign could expand their reach on social media.”

“You work on your stuff and I’ll work on mine, and tomorrow we’ll share what we’ve got.”

I swallow. She’s right. This is what we do: divide and conquer according to our respective strengths. Even as a kid, Libby was praised for her artwork, her fashion sense, the little plays she’d write for us to perform for our parents and GiGi. I was praised for acing my math tests, for getting good grades, and for keeping my room organized.

It doesn’t make sense for us to duplicate our efforts by working on the same tasks. The fact that I feel mildly stifled is irrelevant; everyone feels like this at work sometimes.

“Oh, and by the way,” Libby says, turning around. “I’m working on a plan to bring in some extra cash.”

“That’s... good,” I say; we definitely need the money—I’m nervous about the electric bill this summer since Libby likes the AC blasting.

“We have all this extra space in the office, so we’re going to rent it out. You know, like a coworking space? Twelve people are already interested.”

I blink. She’s bringing strangers into our office? To work here? With us? Questions flood my mind:How did she find these people? Will there be a vetting process? Background checks? Will they clean up after themselves?

And most of all: Why didn’t she talk to me about this before doing it?

“But—”

“It’ll be fine, Han,” she says, turning back to her work. “Trust me.”

And what can I say to that? Nothing.

•••

WHEN THE CLOCKturns to five, I discreetly slip out the door, telling Libby I’ll meet her at home. It’s time for me to meet Josh for this “special run” he’s planned, and I don’t need my sister telling me it’s a terrible idea.

I already know that. But I can’t keep myself from doing it anyway.

•••

A FEW MINUTESlater, I’m in Josh’s car, heading south down Halsted.

“So... when are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask. My knees are bouncing with nerves.

“Patience, grasshopper,” he says, his dimple showing.

It’s not just the surprise making me anxious; being in a car with Josh is unsettling. Not only does he own a car I’ve never seen before (a silver Accord he apparently bought in grad school), but it’s strange being this close to him, in a confined space, with no one else around.

I can smell him.

I can hear that hint of gravel in his voice when he laughs.

I can see the individual flecks of stubble on his jaw. The finger-combed waves in his dark hair. The cracked skin on his knuckles as his fingers drum the steering wheel. He always had dry skin; I was always buying him hand cream, which he would promptly lose.

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