Page 1 of The Refiner

Keagan

Two years ago

“Come on, Keagan, it’ll be fun!”

I lower my voice and narrow my gaze at the grinning liar in front of me. “Fact check, my dear, sweet sister: fun is watching you have a meltdown when forced to use a porta-potty. This—” I wave my hand around the fancy room with chandeliers and balloon bouquets, “—‘party’ as you call it, is nothing but a hoard of rich people eloquently bragging to the person sitting beside them.” I punch Piper’s arm hard. “You tricked me. I thought we were getting shitfaced with the possibility of twerking.”

Piper chokes on the expensive champagne, coughing like an eighty-year-old smoker.

“Great, now you’re drawing more attention to us,” I complain.

“Stop.” Piper laughs, trying to scold me between gasps of air.

“You stop. You’re the one looking foolish. I’m merely standing here, trying to have a grown-up conversation with my manipulative big sister.”

I’m being dramatic. I know that. But I did not drive three hours to visit my sister for the weekend, only to share her attention with a room full of stuffy doctors.

“I didn’t manipulate you.” Like a proper doctor, Piper seems to have recovered her composure amongst her peers. “I told you I needed to show my face, and then we could leave.”

I glance around the room, scanning the dresses that likely cost more than my car. Even my sister, who wore thrift store dresses during my teenage years, fits in with her baby pink, sequined gown more than I do. My flowy white skirt, mocha crop top, and dozens of boho bracelets stand out in a sea of extravagant beauty queens. Not one part of me screams formal. Though, in my defense, Piper mentioned attending no such party when I was packing. And while we’re the same height, we are not the same size. Somehow my sister has crossed over to the dark side with her devotion to starvation. She says it’s the stress of the hours she keeps, but it’s more like she forgets to eat when she’s working a twenty-four-hour shift.

“And now that you have—shown your face, I mean—can we go?”

I’m not above whining.

My sister knows I’m allergic to formal parties.

Piper sighs. She knows this party sucks a salty nut too. “Fine. Let me speak to Rebekah, and then we can go.”

“Hallelujah.” I grab the glass of champagne from her hand and toss it back. “Go do air kisses and swoon over blood diamonds. I’ll be over here holding back my gag reflex.”

Piper flashes me a stern look that would make our mother proud. “Please behave. These are my colleagues.”

“Unfortunately.”

Why she didn’t become a vet, so I could love on all the dogs, is beyond me. Humans aren’t all that impressive.

“I mean it, Keys. Keep your snarky comments to yourself.”

I wave away her concern. “What am I? Twelve? I know how to handle myself in front of assholes. Trust me. Go, do your thing so we can leave.”

Piper isn’t a fool. She knows that my track record with keeping my mouth shut is pretty spotty. Unlike my sister, I take no shit from people who deserve a pop to the mouth. I hate entitled assholes who think the sun shines just for their pretty faces. If the world is big enough for their egos, it’s big enough for my opinion.

“I’ll be right back,” Piper says, as if it’s some kind of warning rather than reassurance.

I bow. “I’ll be right here, madame, waiting for your scraps of time.”

Piper’s face falls. “Keys…”

“I’m just kidding. Gah, you’re such a mom. Go, I’m fine.” Goodness, she’s such a worrier. “I’m just going to grab another glass of this shitty champagne.”

Alcohol is alcohol when you’re desperate.

And I am the definition of desperate at this party that’s supposed to be a baby shower for this woman my sister “sort of” knows—which is insane. Why would you come to a boring party and suffer for someone you only ‘kind of’ know? Piper claims she isn’t here for the soon-to-be mom but here to support a friend. We’ve simply been loitering in a sea of plastic sharks.

Fine, they’re doctors with their wives, or maybe their mistresses, I can’t tell. All I know is I was ready to go when someone gave me the first air kiss on the cheek. I draw the line at air kisses and squeals about a sonogram that looks like fat tissue.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against children. I just don’t find the fascination with grainy photos and stories of poop and vomit. I’d rather subject myself to my sister’s operating room dictations about her urology surgeries. At least with those stories, I learn new words to refer to a penis. My sister can’t bring herself to talk about a dong in my presence, so I find it beyond amusing to say as many uncomfortable penis words to make her squirm.

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