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I looked down at Ranger.
He leaned harder against my leg.
“Did you want it?” Lena asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
Of course she said that. Everyone I loved had apparently entered into a private agreement to stop accepting my first answer.
I breathed out.
“I wanted what it meant,” I said. “Security. Proof. The number. What Dad would have thought of the number.”
“But did you want Seattle?”
The question was clean enough to hurt.
I shook my head once.
“No.”
Lena nodded like she had already known and had only been waiting for me to catch up.
“I let it close,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “You did.”
“I could have said yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“Then you didn’t lose a life,” she said. “You lost a version of yourself you thought you were supposed to want.”
I closed my eyes.
The house smelled like garlic and laundry soap. Tommy was in the living room arguing with a cartoon. Ranger leaned harder into my leg.
My sister stood in front of me with her dish towel and her practical shoes and the kind of love that did not let me lie just because lying would be easier.
“Shiny is still shiny,” I said.
“Sure,” Lena said. “A city you’ve never lived in. A number that sounds impressive until you realize you’d be spending it alone in a condo with a view of a mountain you don’t care about.”
She nodded toward the living room, where Tommy was arguing with his own architecture.
“You’ve never chased fame. Dad drove a Zamboni, and you were happy. You’ve always chased the same thing: purpose, identity, and a place where you belong.”
Sam had been pursuing it as well, coming from the other side. She was fleeing from a man who weaponized her possessions against her, and over three years, she had crafted a life carefully structured so no one could exploit her again. I defended what was mine by locking it down; she defended herself by keeping distance.
Same load-bearing wall.
“What now?” I asked.
“Now you decide on purpose,” she said. “The window, Sam, the team—none of that chooses for you. You choose.”
