Page 6 of A Midnight Romance
Stevie cocks her head to the side while frustration sweeps across her face. She’s annoyed but recognizes I’m right. “Fine, those things can happen. I get it. But the benefit to us is you, my skilled big sister, can identify a man with ill intentions at first glance.”
“A skill, yes, but not something to be solely relied upon.”
With us being raised by a single father who is also a homicide detective meant our childhood focused more on being more alert than other children our age, who lived carefree lives believing the world was a good place and imaginary monsters only lived under your bed.
Seeing that her argument for leaving the house isn’t going as she planned, Stevie takes a new approach. “You live and breathe your job.”
“What can I say?” I shrug, clutching my wine glass close to my chest. “Crime happens to be my entire personality.”
Growing up, I watched my dad agonize over grizzly homicide scenes, and the ones that involved women or children were always the most difficult for him. Ever since, I vowed to use my natural ability to write and my curiosity about crime to write stories involving women who get revenge on their attackers. I like to think of it as my own way of serving justice.
“And dead people are mine,” she retorts, flashing me a toothy smile. “I love owning a mortuary, but you don’t see me trying to hide behind them in order to avoid a dating life.”
I try to ignore my sister’s passive aggressive comment, but it’s difficult since she’s, once again, spot on. “I’m not trying to avoid dating.”
“I think you are.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I have a Nick, remember?”
Oh yes, the college sophomore my sister met last year when she worked his grandmother’s memorial service.
“And where is he tonight?” I quip.
Her eyes lower at my condescending remark. “He’s at a friend’s wedding. I’m sure he’ll text me later tonight.”
“So you want me to find someone to just hook up with?”
Stevie shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m saying.” She sighs. “After Mom died, Dad’s job took over his entire life. I guess I just don’t want us to live like that.”
Stevie and I lost our mother in a car accident when we were very young. Her loss was hard on our dad, and to deal with his grief, he threw himself into his work.
“Do you think he’s unhappy?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” she says, running a hand through her almond corkscrew curls. “He works himself into the ground. That’s all we see. Maybe it’s just my own concern and I’m pushing it off on you.”
“No, you’re right. It’s just hard to find time for anyone else when I find myself obsessed with writing these stories.”
“I get it.”
If I don’t end this conversation soon, Stevie will drag me down a rabbit hole of philosophical discussions about why I became intensely fixatedon writing thriller and her becoming a mortician to take care of people after they’ve passed. And will end with us talking about our father and whether we would have chosen different professions if we hadn’t lost our mother so young.
I sigh, feeling my mind slowly changing. With an exaggerated eye roll, I turn to my sister. “One drink.”
“Really?”
Against my better judgment, while anxiety simmers below the surface for both my deadline as well as my dislike of clubs, I give in to her. Maybe she’s right—a little break might be good for me?
“I guess.”
“Awesome. Then we can come back here and watch a movie until Nick calls.”
“You promise?”
We do a quick pinky promise like when we were kids, then I grab the empty glasses from the coffee table.
“But wait, you don’t have any clothes here?” I ask walking into the kitchen to put the glasses into the sink.
