I chase her, but she locks the bathroom door before I’m even close.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m helping you make that first step,” she answers through the door.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop,” I tell her. “I don’t want to talk to some stranger about the inner workings of my psyche and all the ways in which my life isn’t what I want it to be.”
There’s silence for a minute. The door opens.
“Is that how you really feel?” she asks. “That your life isn’t what you want it to be?”
“Right now, kind of, yeah,” I tell her. “I don’t always feel like this, but you’ve got to admit things are pretty messed up right now and not just for me. Anyway, thanks for not sending him a message.”
“Oh, I sent the message,” she says. “Why do you think I opened the door?”
I glare at her.
“I thought you opened the door because you gave a shit about what I was saying. It didn’t occur to me that you only came out because you’d successfully gotten away with doing exactly what I told you not to do.”
The phone beeps and Kristin jumps excitedly.
“Ooh, he sent you a message!”
“Give me the phone,” I tell her.
“Hold on, I want to see what he said.”
“No, give me the phone,” I tell her and try to grab it from her hand.
She pulls away, but I crowd her so she can’t pull it toward her body.
“Give me the phone,” I tell her again.
“Hold on!” she says. “I just want to see this one message, and then I’ll give it back.”
“That’s it,” I tell her and proceed to do the one thing that I know will work: I start tickling her sides.
“Stop it!” she wheezes through her laughter, her body doubling up. “Stop it!”
“Give me the phone,” I tell her.
“Never!” she shouts.
“Give me the fucking phone!”
Finally, I manage to pry the cellphone from her fingers and I run back to the living room.
Stupid diversion or not, at least I’ve finally got a smile back on my face.
“Fine,” she says. “But I bet you’re going to tell me what he said anyway.”
“I’m not checking it,” I tell her. “I don’t even know this person.”
“Well, he’s already got your phone number, so that’s about the closest you’ve been to a real date in a few years. You’re welcome,” Kristin responds.
“How did you get to be so smug?” I ask her.
“It runs in the family,” she says.
“You know, you’re never going to believe what happened today,” I start and proceed to tell her about the worker who broke into my store and the resulting shouting match I got into with the contractor.
“Huh,” she says. “That guy sounds like a jerk. You should have kicked him in the balls.”
That’s her answer to everything.
“You know, there are other ways to make a point,” I inform her.
“Yeah, but there’s no better way of making a point than that,” she rejoins. “Read the text.”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m serious. I don’t have time to start—”
“Oh, will you just shut up and read the stupid text? We both know it’s going to happen sooner or later, and I don’t have all day to wait around for it.”
“Actually,” I smile, “judging by the way you’re swaying back and forth just standing there, I’d say you’re going to be here for quite a while.”
“Nah,” she says, “I’ll just have Jed pick me up when I get sick of you.”
“You want another shot?” I ask.
I’m not going to have one, but seeing as I don’t want to see, talk to or otherwise encounter Jed, I’m going to get my sister drunk enough that she’ll forget about calling her stupid boyfriend and just stay here until she’s safe to drive.
“Sure,” she says.
In our family, we all have our particular addictions, and we all have more than one. Kristin’s addictions are torrid love affairs, every one of which is with the latest “one and only;” her other addiction is alcohol. When played right, that second addiction wins out almost every time.
So, I pour my sister a shot and I pour one into the shot glass that I was using. I hold up the latter and clink glasses with her.
She immediately takes her shot, but I just set mine back down on the counter.
When she’s done with hers, she wipes her mouth and says, “You know that it’s bad luck to toast and not drink.”
“I think I’m full up on bad luck,” I tell her. “I’m not too worried about it. This one’s for you.”
I pick up the shot glass and hand it to her.
“All right,” she says, “but I know what you’re doing…”
She takes the shot.
“…and it’s not going to work.”
Judging by the increase in her topside lateral motion, I’d say it’s already working pretty well.
I manage to talk her into one more shot, after which, she tries to talk me into letting her have another, but I’m very familiar with her stages of drunkenness and she’s about to cross over into whiny sick girl and I just don’t have the patience for that right now.
A few minutes later, we’re on the couch with a movie on the television and she’s snoring loudly beside me. I hadn’t figured on her passing out so quickly, but those are the breaks.
As I sit here, I find myself feeling a little curious.
I fight the urge at first, but it’s not long before my inebriated state, however slight in comparison to my passed out sibling’s, manages to convince me that it’s all right if I just take a look at what he wrote.
Kristin’s message is, well, exactly what I would expect from her.
It reads, “Hey there! My beautiful, talented sister gave me your number and said we should talk. What’s up?”
All things considered, it could have been worse.
His reply says, “Not much. Having a bit of a day, but I’m glad to hear from you. Sorry I haven’t gotten in touch before now. Work’s crazy.”
Before I even think about what I’m doing, I’m typing a reply.
“I know what that’s like. What do you do?”
I send the message and force myself to watch the movie in order to distract myself from overthinking this whole thing.
My phone beeps and I check the message.
“I’d rather not talk about work right now. I hope that’s not rude of me.”
On most days, I’d find his message shallow: After all, who doesn’t like talking about work? (Okay, work is one of my addictions.)
Luckily for him, he caught me on the right day.
“I totally get that. Things are pretty messed up where I work, too. Do you live in the city?”
There is an odd thrill to being able to have a kind-of conversation with someone I’ve never met and probably never will meet. Obviously the conversation is of little substance, but it’s a nice outlet. Maybe this is why people used to go into chat rooms.
My phone goes off again.
The message says, “Yeah. I’ve lived here all my life. I don’t know if that’s because I actually like it here or just that I don’t have any real basis for comparison. You?”
I respond, “Not the city itself, but I’ve always lived in the state. What are you doing right now?”
Then, realizing that my previous message could easily be misconstrued as some kind of invitation that I’m certainly not offering, I send another one.
I write, “I’m taking care of my drunk-ass sister and watching Goonies.”
If ever there were a text that would convince a guy not to want to invite me anywhere or himself over here, it’d be that one.
My phone beeps a few seconds later.
“Sounds like a blast. I’m getting ready to move.”
“Where are you moving?” I write back.
A minute or so passes and he responds, “Just a few blocks from where I’m at now. New apartment.”
Then it starts to occur to me: This is someone that I’m never going to meet. I can ask him anything, tell him—okay, I can’t really tell him anything as my sister is apparently friends with one of his friends, but there’s a lot more I can do with this than just trudge through the usual small talk.
“If you could have the one thing you want most in life, would you give up everything else to get it?” I write.