Page 20 of The Thinnest Air
But instead they called my mother, who promptly shaved my head that night, tied my hair clippings in a bag, and tossed them down the garbage chute.
I drag my hand along my loose, blonde waves, soft and blown out, the result of Brazilian keratin treatments at salons with months-long wait lists.
“Fine,” Greer says. “You can have the nice shoes. Just don’t becomeher.”
“I won’t,” I promise her, drawing an X across my heart before lifting my pinky to her. She smirks, resisting my pinky promise, but I persist until she gives in. “Come on. Our reservation is in five minutes.”
As soon as we’re settled at our table, sipping Italian teas among the clink of flatware on china and the dull lull of conversation in the background, I’m overcome with a wave of contentment, the same warm, gushy feeling I tend to soak up like a dry sponge anytime I’m with her.
“How’s Andrew?” she asks.
“Amazing.” I can’t help but smile when I hear his name. It’s a reflex.
I never thought I’d be settled so young, but when I look at some of the girls I went to college with and how they’re struggling through their “quarter-life crises” and jumping from jerk boyfriend to jerk boyfriend, it makes me even more appreciative of the way things panned out for me.
Andrew is a real man.
He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t manipulate or have a wandering eye. He treats me like gold and loves me more than anyone has ever loved me.
Anyway, things could always be worse, and the only problems I have are those of the first-world variety.
My sincerest wish is that my sister could know this feeling, too, one of these days—of being loved, cared for, cherished, whether by Harris ... or someone new.
“So how are things with you and Mr.Collier?” I ask in an English accent, taking a sip of tea and lifting my pinky finger. When we were little, we’d always pretend to be fancy, thinking it was the funniest thing in the world.
Greer’s posture shifts, her back growing straight as she peers out the window to her right. She’s not going to play along.
“I’ve decided to move out,” she says, lifting her cup to her mouth.
“That’s okay, right? I mean, you guys are broken up now. It’s weird that you’re living together.”
“I guess.”
“How do you feel about it?” I don’t expect my sister to give me a straight answer. She’s still in love with Harris, and I have a feeling she always will be.
Greer shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “It’s fine. It was time. No point in treading the same old waters with the intention of going nowhere.”
“I’ve never understood what you see in him anyway. I’ve never met anyone so pretentious who tries so hard to act like they’re not pretentious. He talks down to everyone, and he acts like he knows everything.”
“Intelligent, opinionated men are like that.” She takes another sip. “He can’t help it. He’s very passionate about his causes. And he’s not pretentious. That’s absurd. He’s the least pretentious person I know.”
Years ago, I used to make fun of Harris for wearing $120 T-shirts declaring his feminist and climate change stances, and he’d make fun of my Tory Burch sandals and overlined Kylie Jenner lips. We never saw eye to eye, but we both loved Greer enough to tolerate each other and keep our razzing to a minimum.
Of course, Greer always opted to believe we were bantering like a couple of squabbling schoolchildren.
I suppose we’re always deciding what we want to see in life and choosing how we’re going to see it. She never wanted to believe Harris was anything other than perfect, and I blame love. She loved him. Still does.
Sometimes love is wonderful.
Other times it’s poison.
“Does he want to see other people?” I ask. Their breakup came out of left field, and from the outside, it seemed amicable and drama-free, but the more I dug into the nitty-gritty of it all, the more I realized how screwed up their situation was. My sister claimed the relationship had grown stale and evolved into a close friendship, but looking back, I can’t help but wonder if those were his words.
Greer wastes no time shaking her head. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
“We’re not together anymore. It doesn’t make sense to live together. He wants space. So do I. End of story.”
