Free The Never Never Sisters by L. Alison Heller

time.”
    “Right.” Talk about a nonanswer.
    “How was the flight?”
    “Fine.” She drained her coffee cup and looked around for the pot for a nanosecond
     before my mom swooped in with a refill.
    I went over to the cabinet and fetched a cup. “Where’s Dad?”
    “He’s on a call. For work.” Sloane’s voice was even, and I couldn’t tell if there
     was a slight edge of mockery.
    “But he’ll be out in three minutes,” said my mom.
    “He’ll be out in three minutes,” repeated Sloane, glancing at her watch as though
     she intended to hold him to that. “So, how’s life?”
    “Good.”
    “You got married?”
    “Yeah. Two years ago.” We didn’t know Sloane’s exact address when the invitations
     went out, and after much debate and some fruitless Emily Post research by Lydia the
     wedding planner, ultimately ended up scanning Sloane an image of the invite through
     an e-mail that might or might not have been hers. She hadn’t sent an RSVP.
    “Congrats on that.”
    “Dave is wonderful,” my mom said. “You’ll love him.”
    “I’m sure.” Sloane raised her eyebrows and nodded.
    It was my turn to ask about her life, but I was afraid of the answer—inclusive of
     angry words, no doubt, like “rehab” and “benders” and “dealers” and “fault” and “blame.”
     Most certainly, her response would rip off the thin veneer of civility we had established
     so far. “Are you still in California?”
    She nodded, willing to cop to that, but didn’t supply any additional information,
     like, say, a city or even which general area within the state. My dad, looking a bit
     burdened, walked into the room, wished me a good morning and ignored everyone else
     as though we were his usual breakfast crew. He grabbed the paper off the island and
     sank down in his regular chair at the table, unfolding it before him.
    “Franklin,” my mom’s voice sounded in warning. “No. Paper. At. Breakfast. Today.”
    “Christ on a crock, Vanessa.” He didn’t even look up. “I heard you the first fifty
     times. I’ll stop when we eat.”
    “On a crock?” I said. “Did you just make that up?”
    “I remember that,” said Sloane. “You reading the paper at the table every morning.
     You still do that.”
    “That’s right.” My mom brightened as if Sloane had recited an ode to family in iambic
     pentameter. “That’s exactly right. He reads the paper every morning.”
    I did not point out how pathetic it was that our family tradition, the thing we could
     all reconnect over, was my dad ignoring us in favor of the news of the world. Although,
     to be fair, the way he read the newspaper—as though it offered a sound and sight shield
     to everything within a two-mile radius around him—probably was unique.
    I sat down and then Sloane did, and my mom walked to the table with a large bowl of
     something red and gelatinous. With obvious pride, she placed it next to the bagels.
    “What’s that?” I bent my head closer, sniffed.
    “Saskatoon jam!” She said this happily, like it meant something.
    “Oh,” I said. “Yum, yum.” My eyes met Sloane’s, and she made a funny face, jam skeptical.
     I had to bite down my smile. Sloane and I would not be bonding at my mother’s expense.
    “You’ve changed your hair. You’ve got that whole”—Sloane moved her hand in a circular
     motion parallel to my face—“blond thing going on.”
    Blond thing?
“Um. Yeah. I’ve changed a bit since puberty.” It came out sharply enough that the
     three of us looked around nervously. Sloane grabbed a bagel, slowly spreading cream
     cheese with one side of the butter knife, and my mom rushed into the uncomfortable
     quiet like the cavalry.
    “Paige is a therapist now.”
    I felt my eyebrows descend, low enough that their wiry translucence branched into
     my field of vision, reminding me I was due to get them done.
    “Wow.” Sloane’s voice was monotone—not overtly aggressive enough for me to