Page 65 of Misery
The bartender who's fine.
The survivor who's healing.
The daughter who didn't mean what she said.
Except I did mean it. I meant every fucking word.
The door chimes and my heart stops, but it's not my parents.
It's Helle.
My sister stands in the doorway like she's not sure she's welcome.
Her tight blonde curls catch the neon light, falling halfway down her back just like Mom's.
Same delicate features, same warm brown eyes that see too much.
She's wearing jeans and a Florida State sweatshirt, looking impossibly young and normal surrounded by all this leather and danger.
She spots me, offers a tentative wave.
I nod toward an empty stool near me.
She navigates through the crowd carefully, aware of the eyes following her.
Everyone knows who she is—Ivar's other daughter.
The one who didn't get attacked. The one who stayed whole.
"Hey," she says, sliding onto the stool. "Can we talk?"
"I'm working."
"I'll wait."
She settles in like she has all the time in the world.
One of the prospects—Aren—immediately positions himself closer.
Protection by association. Even my little sister gets protection, it seems.
"Whiskey sour?" I ask. Her usual.
"You remember."
"You're my sister. Of course I remember."
Something passes between us.
I can’t put my finger on it, but we haven’t been overly close these last couple of years.
I make her drink with extra care.
Muddle the sugar and bitters perfectly.
Add the egg white she pretends to hate but secretly loves.
Shake it until my arms ache. Anything to delay the conversation I know is coming.
