The Language of Sisters Read Free Page B

from River Valley Vineyards.”
    â€œNo, thank you.” I wanted one thing.
    Relief.
    It was incredible sex, as always. I am turned on by touching his hand.
    He asked me to stay, he always does. I said no, thank you. He said that he wanted to wake up with me. I said no, sorry. He said, “I need this to change.”
    I said, “I already told you it’s not going to change.”
    I rolled over on top of him and kissed his cheek. He linked his fingers with mine, then rolled over on top of me, our hands above my head. He wasn’t happy. I ignored it. I disentangled our fingers, pushed at his shoulders, climbed out of bed, and got dressed. I ignored his unhappy face and walked out of his houseboat.
    He followed me and made sure I returned to my tugboat safely. I don’t know why he does this, I’m perfectly safe. I opened the door. I did not look back at him, but I knew he was hoping I would.
    I didn’t turn on the lights. I went to bed and stared at the ceiling, the river a lonely thing wrapped around my tugboat.
    Then I did what I always do after these nights with him.
    I cried.
    * * *
    It was Kozlovsky Sisters Night at Svetlana’s Kitchen. Valerie, Ellie, and I were at the bar. It was crowded, as usual.
    â€œValerie,” I asked. “Do you sometimes feel like you’re the Lock ’Em Up Queen of Portland?”
    â€œYes, I do, Toni,” Valerie said, tapping the side of her martini glass.
    Valerie likes her job as a prosecuting attorney. She is almost two years younger than me. She’s tall and thin, and has risen through the ranks at work like lightning. I told her it’s because of her fire-and-brimstone nature, the bonfire beginning in our childhood. She agreed.
    Valerie has short black hair, blunt cut, her widow’s peak naturally pushing her hair away from her face, as mine does. Her eyes are blue, a little lighter than mine. She is married to Kai, who is a burly Hawaiian and a captain on the Portland police force, and they have two kids—Ailani, who is ten, and Koa, who is three. Ailani knows way more about crime than she should and finds it fascinating, and Koa likes to dress up like a monster. Both the kids have a widow’s peak. Or, perhaps I should say that Koa has a cowlick.
    â€œThey commit the crime, they’re arrested and locked up. If they’re guilty as sin, I grill ’em, chill ’em, and bake ’em.”
    â€œThat’s an interesting way to describe your job,” Ellie said.
    â€œIt’s very chef-like—grilling, chilling, baking,” I said.
    â€œOnly it’s people,” Valerie said. She took a long drink of that martini. “More complicated.”
    â€œYou love it,” Ellie said. Ellie is almost two years younger than Valerie. She has wavy black hair, to her shoulders, same thing with her widow’s peak. Her eyes are blue green, like the sea. She curves, like our mother. She believes she’s fat. I believe she has a perfect figure. Ellie owns the pillow-making business that my father thinks Gino wants to leach off of. It’s called Ellie K’s Pillows.
    â€œI love it most of the time,” Valerie said. “Call it childhood revenge.” I knew, by the way she closed her eyes, that something from our childhood had come up and clawed at her.
    As a crime and justice reporter for the Oregon Standard, I don’t write about the crime, or the court proceedings, if Valerie has the case. That goes to Shamira Connell, my colleague at the Oregon Standard, as clearly there’s a conflict of interest. Valerie did not change her name after she got married—“We’re Kozlovskys forever”—so it wouldn’t do to have the reporter’s name the same as the prosecuting attorney’s. However, I’m often familiar with her cases because I wrote about them at the time the crime occurred.
    â€œAny info on the job you applied for?” Valerie asked