Sometimes, I wonder if Sarah purposely slurps her coffee just to annoy me or if it's some bizarre genetic trait I managed to escape. The sound echoes across the trendy cafe, drawing a few irritated glances from the laptop warriors occupying nearby tables.
"Jesus, Sarah, could you be any louder?" I ask, sliding down slightly in my chair as if I could physically distance myself from the noise.
She takes another deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The slurping somehow intensifies, defying the laws of physics and common decency.
"So," she says finally, setting her mug down with a decisive clink, "how's not having a job going?"
The question lands like a precision strike, but I've been expecting it. Sarah's never been one to dance around uncomfortable topics. It's both her most admirable quality and the one that makes me want to strangle her sometimes.
I lean back in my chair, affecting a casual posture I don't remotely feel. "You know, with the pocket money Lana gives me, I bet I make more than you," I joke, offering a half-smile. "Benefits are pretty great, too."
Sarah doesn't laugh. Instead, she studies me over the rim of her coffee cup, her brown eyes, so similar to my own, narrowed slightly in assessment.
"Funny," she says flatly. "Almost as funny as watching my brother become a kept man."
I feel a rush of irritation at her judgment. The last four months have been a nightmare I'm barely recovering from, and here she is, acting like I'm just some lazy mooch.
"Look, Sarah, I'm going through it right now, okay?" I sigh, running my hand through my hair. "It's been a hell of a year."
She sets her coffee down with enough force that some sloshes over the rim. "You have ping-ponged between two porn stars, Adam. Two! And your psycho ex-girlfriend was so obsessed with you that she literally became my best friend just to learn more about you." Her voice rises slightly, drawing more glances from nearby tables. "Your life is a complete shit show. Lana's going to keep fucking other men for a living, you're still unemployed, you're stalker is still probably at large, and meanwhile, I can't keep a guy around for more than three weeks."
I stare at her for a moment, processing the outburst. "That last part seems more about you than me," I point out.
Sarah's eyes widen in surprise, and for a second I think she might throw her coffee at me. Then her lips twitch, and a reluctant laugh bubbles out of her.
"WELL, MY LIFE IS SHIT TOO!" she exclaims, throwing her hands up dramatically.
We both burst into laughter, the tension between us dissolving like sugar in her overpriced latte. It feels good to laugh with my sister again, even if it's at our mutual misery.
When our laughter finally dies down, Sarah wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and fixes me with that penetrating big-sister stare I've known my whole life.
"So what's your future hold, little brother? You going to go back to writing?"
The question hits me like a sucker punch, stealing my breath for a moment. I stare down at my half-empty cup, watching the ripples form as my hand trembles slightly.
"I want to," I admit, my voice dropping so low she has to lean forward to hear me. "But every time I open a blank document, I freeze up. All I can think about is Morgan reading everything I wrote to her when I thought she was just some random guy online. How she used all those personal details to get inside my head."
"I'm afraid she'll trick me again," I confess. "Like, what if she's in some writing group I join? Or what if she creates a new fake identity and becomes my editor or something? She's still out there, Sarah. And she knows exactly how to manipulate me."
Sarah reaches across the table and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly.
"Adam," Sarah says, her expression shifting from compassion to something more mischievous, "you write femdom Pokémon smut. I think you can handle whatever life throws at you."
I choke on my coffee, spraying a mouthful across the table. Several heads turn our way as I cough violently.
"Jesus Christ, Sarah!" I sputter, frantically grabbing napkins to mop up the mess.
Sarah throws her head back and laughs, completely unconcerned with the attention we're attracting. She leans forward, elbows on the table, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.
"Oh, relax, Adam. I don't care that my brother has starred in a porn with his creepy ex. I've known you're a giant degenerate since I found your browser history when you were sixteen."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. When I peek through my fingers, Sarah's expression has shifted to something more neutral.
"Oh, by the way where's Lana today?" she asks, her voice suddenly flat and disinterested, like she's asking about the weather while secretly hoping for a hurricane.
I stare at her, taking in the too-casual posture, the carefully blank expression, the way she examines her nails instead of meeting my eyes.
"This is fucked up, Sarah," I say, my tone only half-serious. "You ask about her like she's some distant acquaintance you're forced to make small talk about at a dinner party."
"What do you want me to say?" Sarah shrugs, stirring her coffee with unnecessary vigor. "That I'm thrilled my baby brother is back with the porn star whose career choices indirectly led to him being stalked, drugged, and losing part of his finger?"
"That's not fair, and you know it," I counter, feeling a surge of protectiveness toward Lana. "None of what happened was her fault. Morgan is the one who…"
"I know, I know," Sarah interrupts, holding up her hands in surrender. "Psycho stalker, not Lana's fault, blah blah blah. But can you blame me for being a little wary? You have to admit your track record with women lately has been... concerning."
I slump back in my chair, the fight draining out of me. "She's at work," I mumble, answering her original question. "And before you make that face, yes, I know what that means. We've worked through it."
Sarah stares at me, her expression shifting from annoyance to something more contemplative as she drains the last of her coffee. She sets the empty mug down with a decisive clink.
"I really don't know how you do it, Adam," she says, shaking her head. "Like, right now, at this very moment, your girlfriend is getting railed by some dude, and you're just sitting here having coffee with me like it's totally normal. That's... kind of gross."
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling a familiar tightness in my pants as unbidden images flash through my mind, Lana pressed against slick tiles, water cascading down her perfect body, Derek's hands gripping her hips as he...
Fuck. I cross my legs and clear my throat.
"At least she isn't fucking with my head," I counter, meeting Sarah's judgmental gaze. "She's honest about what she does. I always know where I stand with her."
The words come out more defensive than I intended, but they're true. After Morgan's elaborate web of lies, Lana's straightforward approach to everything, including her career, feels like solid ground beneath my feet.
Sarah sighs dramatically, running her finger around the rim of her empty mug. "Well, that's more than I can say about my stupid fucking boyfriends," she mutters. "At least when Lana screws someone else, you know about it. Mine just do it behind my back."
I wince at Sarah's comment, feeling a twinge of sympathy despite our bickering. Time to steer this conversation away from my complicated love life before she starts digging deeper.
"So, uh, how are Mom and Dad doing these days?" I ask, fidgeting with my coffee cup. "Haven't talked to them in a while."
Sarah's expression shifts instantly, her eyes narrowing as she shoots me a look that could curdle milk. "Waiting for a call from their only son, I imagine," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know, that thing where you pick up your phone and press some buttons?"
The guilt hits me like a sucker punch. Between the Morgan nightmare and reconnecting with Lana, I've barely thought about my parents. Another ball I've dropped in my increasingly chaotic life.
"Yeah, that sounds like... a lot right now," I mumble, suddenly fascinated by a coffee stain on the table.
Sarah doesn't respond, just stares at me with that mix of disappointment and concern that only older sisters can truly master. The cafe buzzes with conversation around us, but between us sits a heavy silence filled with all the things I'm failing at.
Maybe tomorrow I'll call them. Maybe tomorrow I'll start writing again. Maybe tomorrow, I'll finally stop looking over my shoulder for a flash of red hair.
Maybe.