Chapter ten

I heard her before I saw her. That sharp, singsong voice calling my name from the hallway.

“Open up Sasha, it’s freezing out here!”

I froze, hand still on the counter. I hadn’t heard her voice in almost a year, and hearing it again was like stepping into an old bruise. Familia, tender, not quite healed. When I opened the door, she was standing there, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, in an  oversized hoodie, hair shiny and freshly trimmed, skin clear. The version of her that used to stumble through my door was gone. At least on the surface. She looked around with a casual, almost challenging air, as if she owned the space. Which, in a way, she did.

“Hey,” she said, voice light, breezy. “I’m home.”

“Monica.”  I said softly.

She grinned, eyes bright, and threw her arms around me before I could think. I hugged her back, awkward at first, then tighter, the memory of every sleepless night flashing behind my eyes.

 “You look good.”  I managed.

“I feel good,” she said, stepping back to study the apartment.

 “Smells like garlic. You still cooking like your life depends on it?”

 I smiled faintly. “Pretty much. Come in.”

She walked in like she never left, dropped her duffel bag by the couch, kicked off her sneakers, flopped down, and exhaled dramatically.

“God, rehab food was a nightmare. You’d think they were trying to punish us.”

 Her tone was light, but there was something brittle under it. I leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“So… how was it?”

She shrugged. “Boring. Necessary, I guess. The counselors were all nice, too nice. Made me want to punch something.”

 I laughed softly despite myself. “Sounds like you.”

She smiled, proud of it.

“Anyway, I’m clean. I’m serious this time.”

She said it quickly, like she needed to get it out before I could doubt her.

“I’m done with that life.”

I wanted to believe her. God, I did. But I could still see the ghost of the girl who’d lied to my face while stealing from my purse. So I just nodded.

 “That’s good, Monica. I’m proud of you.”

She shrugged. “I’m staying here. You know, like we always used to. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair…mostly.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mostly?”

 “Mostly.” She confirmed, smirking.

“I’m twenty one  now, I can take care of myself. So I won’t be a problem.”

 I folded my arms. “I have a life now. A job… I’m not your safety net anymore,  Monica.”

 “I know,” she said quickly, but there was a stubborn edge in her tone. “And I’m not here to mess it up. I just… need somewhere to stay while I figure out my next steps. You’re not going to tell me I can’t live at the place I grew up in, right?”

  I hesitated, studying her. She wasn’t asking. She wasn’t negotiating. She was asserting it as fact. And despite myself, I felt a pang of something I hadn’t expected. Protectiveness, familiarity, the pull of shared history.

“Fine,” I said reluctantly. “But you need to respect the rules here. My schedule, my space, my life. That comes first. I won’t compromise on that. And I recently opened my restaurant, so I’m gone most….”

 Her head snapped up. “Wait, what? A restaurant? You didn’t tell me that!”

I waved my hand casually and said. “You were…busy.”

 She sat up, grinning, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and mild indignation. “Wow, you really did it. Damn. Look at you, living your dream and everything.”  Her grin widened, unapologetic, a mix of mischief and triumph. “Well, deal. And hey… maybe I can help. Since you’re running the restaurant thing, maybe I can assist in small ways. You’ll see, I’ve got skills now. Rehab skills. Growth skills.”

I blinked, caught off guard by her audacity, and a small laugh escaped me despite the tension. “We’ll see about that.”

And  just like that, she was back. Not hiding, not asking permission, but stepping confidently into my life. The sister I’d known, the one I’d fought with, the one who always expected her place to be hers.

Sometimes, when I think of Monica, I still feel that old mix of anger and exhaustion tighten in my chest. The kind that no deep breath ever fully releases. It started slowly, like a sickness that doesn’t announce itself until it’s already taken root. At first, she was just reckless. Late nights, wrong friends, too much confidence for a teenager who hadn’t earned any of it. I kept telling myself she’d grow out of it. And that she just needed time, but she only got sharper and crueler. She learned early how to lie with a straight face. She’d borrow money she never intended to return, sell things that weren’t hers, and then cry until you doubted your own memory.

Once, she stole the rent money. Six hundred dollars I’d scraped together from working double shifts. When she got caught shoplifting, I bailed her out. When she showed up high and shaking on the doorstep at 2 a.m., I wrapped her in a blanket and pretended not to notice the bruises she’d tried to hide under makeup. I was always cleaning up behind her lies, debts, stolen things, broken trust. She’d disappear for days, come back with stories that didn’t add up, and I’d still find a way to feed her, to forgive her, despite Cherry suggesting there was no saving her and I had to focus on myself.

The breaking point came one night, the night she almost overdosed. I was working a late shift when the hospital called. She’d been found in a friend’s car, unconscious. The doctor said if they’d arrived ten minutes later, she wouldn’t have made it. I didn’t cry. Not that night. I just sat there by her hospital bed, listening to the monitors beep and watching her chest rise and fall, and I realized I couldn’t keep trading my life for hers. So when she got out, I told her she had two choices; rehab or nothing. For the first time in years, she didn’t argue. Maybe she was too tired. Maybe she finally believed I meant it. And now she’s back, I’m holding out hope that rehab actually saved her.

A week had passed since Monica’s return. I hadn’t been able to muster the energy to tell Cherry or Crest. Lucky for me, the latter had been buried in work, we had barely been able to spend time together or talk much over the phone. A knock on the door dragged me from my thoughts. I opened the door to Cherry’s grin. High heels and huge sunglasses even though the sun had already started to fade. Did I just conjure her here?  

“You weren’t answering your phone. I thought you’d either run off to Paris or buried yourself under your restaurant paperwork.”

"Just been busy.”  I said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She breezed past me, the faint scent of expensive perfume trailing behind her, and dropped her bag on the counter like she owned the place. “Busy,” she repeated, eyeing the mess of dishes in the sink. “I can tell. You’ve gone full domestic.” She glanced around my apartment, her gaze taking in the half-folded laundry on the couch, the spice jars scattered across the counter, and a vase of wilted tulips that had seen better days. “So this is what success looks like,” she said, teasing but not unkind. “Messy. Honest. Smells like garlic.”

 “I’ve been recipe testing,” I said, pushing the hair from my face.

A voice floated from the bedroom. “Who’s that?”

Monica appeared, barefoot and wearing one of my T-shirts, a bowl of cereal in her hand, her hair tied in a messy bun that somehow still looked deliberate.

Cherry turned and froze mid-step, her smile tightening ever so slightly, hiding any sign of shock. “Well, well,” she said. “Look who it is.”  

“Hey Cherry.” Monica said with a shrug, like she was saying hello to an old classmate she barely remembered.

Cherry crossed her arms, eyes scanning her from head to toe, not judgmental, but sharp. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I live here.”  Monica replied spooning cereal into her mouth.

I  tried to cut through the tension. “Monica’s back. She’s out of rehab. Clean.”

Cherry nodded slowly, her face unreadable. “That’s… good news.”

Monica rolled her eyes slightly. “Yeah, you sound thrilled.”

Cherry’s smile didn’t budge. “I’ve just learned not to celebrate too soon, sweetheart. Old habits die loud.”

“Cherry,” I warned gently.

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, recovery’s hard. And I’m proud of her. Really.” Her tone softened slightly, but her eyes stayed steady on Monica. “It’s just a lot to take on. For you.”

Monica snarled, setting her bowl down. “I’m not a project. I’m her sister.”

 Cherry looked at me, not her. “I know. That’s what worries me.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Monica dumped her bowl in the sink and disappeared into the tiny hallway, muttering something about people talking like she wasn’t there. The faint sound of running water filled the silence that followed.

  Cherry turned back to me, voice low now. “You sure about this?”

 I exhaled, rubbing my temple. “She’s my sister, Cherry.”

“I get that,” Cherry said, leaning against the counter. “But you’ve worked too damn hard to get here. I just don’t want her to pull you back into the fire while you’re finally standing on something solid.”

Her words stung because they were true. “I’ve got it.”  I said quietly.

Cherry studied me for a long moment, then nodded, her tone softening. “I know you do. But be careful, okay? I just don’t want history repeating itself.”

I smiled faintly. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Anytime,” she said, slipping her sunglasses off.

The following week blurred into a strange rhythm. Not chaos, not peace, something in between. Monica kept mostly to herself. Too quiet, which somehow worried me more than her noise. She’d started disappearing during the day, claiming to meet friends from her NA meetings, volunteering at a wellness center. She always came home with a story.

 Good day?” I asked one evening as I wiped down the kitchen counter after a long shift.

She shrugged, dumping her tote bag by the door. “Yeah. We did this group thing, meditation and self-affirmation. You should try it. You’re tense as hell.”

 I slowly turned to fully face her. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so tensed if I don’t find empty milk cartons left in the fridge. Makeup stains on my towels. My favorite chef’s knife gone from its magnetic strip and later found, dull and sticky, my gold bracelet missing.”

She flipped her hair over and shoulder dismissively.  “I’m still adjusting okay? I haven’t even been here a month and you’ve already got a long list of complaints. If you don’t want me here just say so.”

 I stormed passed her, grabbed my purse and got out of the house, before I’d say something I couldn’t retract.That night, I made another discovery. I waited until the next morning. I knew if I brought it up while my blood was still hot, I’d say something terrible. So I let the night swallow my anger. But morning light didn’t make it any better. Monica stumbled out of her room around ten, wearing one of my pajamas, scrolling through her phone. I was perched on the kitchen table, coffee gone cold, bank statement pulled up on my laptop.

 “Morning,” she said. “You look… feral.”

 “Sit down.”  She frowned, halfway through a yawn. “Why?”

 “Because I said so.”

That got her attention. She sat, wary, like a cat testing the air for danger.

I turned the laptop toward her. “Do you recognize these transactions?”

Her eyes flicked across the screen, the hairdryer, the sneakers, a late-night food delivery from some expensive sushi place. She didn’t even blink. “You went through my stuff?”

“It’s my account, Monica.”

She leaned back in the chair, arms folded. “So what? You think I’m stealing from you?”

“I know you used my card.”

She looked away, jaw tightening. “Okay, fine. I borrowed it. I was going to tell you.”

I bristled. “When?”

“I don’t know. When it stopped being such a big deal.”

 “It is a big deal.”

 Her laugh was short and bitter. “God, you act like I bought a car. It was a few things, okay? You own a restaurant now, you’re doing fine. Why are you freaking out? If it’ll make you sleep better at night, I’ll pay you back.”

 I snapped. “It’s not about the money! It’s about trust. You promised me when you got out that things would be different.”

 She shot back, “I am different! I’m clean, aren’t I? I’m not lying in some alley or overdosing or calling you from jail. I’m trying, and all you can see is what I’m doing wrong.”

 I took a breath, trying to steady myself. “Trying means showing up, Monica. It means taking responsibility, not treating my place like a free hotel. You can’t live here and not contribute. You need to get a job.”

Her face twisted, a mix of defiance and guilt. “It’s my house too you know? And a job doing what? Flipping burgers? You want me to scrub floors after all the therapy and crap I went through just to be stable?”

 “Yes,” I said. “And it’s my house considering how you’ve never paid rent.”  

“Well maybe if I had a Crest bankrolling…” she blurted out suddenly and stopped, realizing her mistake.

The words hit me like a slap, I stood up in an instant. “What did you just say?”

 Her face went pale. “Nothing. I mean…”

 I pointed at her face. “No, you said his name. How do you know about Crest?”

 She blinked too fast. “I uh…I saw his message pop up on your phone once. You left it unlocked.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me.”

  She folded her arms and looked away. “I’m not lying”

“Yes, you are.” My chest felt tight, anger and betrayal mixing into something heavier. “You went through my phone?”

She hesitated, her silence said everything.

“Jesus, Monica.”

She instantly got defensive. “I wasn’t snooping!” she said too quickly. “I just…your phone buzzed, and I looked, and then I saw…”

 “What?”

 Her lips trembled, but her tone firm. “That you’re seeing him. That you’re with some rich guy who helps you with the restaurant and buys you jewelry. I thought you said you weren’t like that, that you didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” I cut her off. “Didn’t need anyone? Didn’t want to depend on a man? You think that’s what this is?”

 Her eyes flashed. “I think you’re judgmental! You call Cherry reckless, you call me irresponsible, but look at you, pretending you’re some saint while you let him bankroll your dream.”

 I stepped back, voice low. “You don’t know anything about him. Or me. And you had no right to go through my phone.”

Monica crossed her arms, chin lifted in that same proud tilt she used as a child when caught red-handed. “Maybe not. But maybe if you trusted me enough to tell me about your life, I wouldn’t have had to find out like that.”

I laughed dry, bitter. “What goes on in my life is none of your damn business! Do you understand me? You took my card and invaded my privacy. Do you have any idea how violated I feel?”

Her voice cracked. She shoved her chair back, the legs screeching against the tile. “I’m going out.” She moved quickly and slammed the door hard.

I stood there in the stillness, my heart thudding against my ribs, and realized what scared me most wasn’t what she’d said. It was how much of me she could still get to.