The Sister Season by Jennifer Scott Page B

not. I don’t need him thinking I’m telling the whole world about this. He doesn’t even know you.” She let out a breathy laugh toward the sky. “I don’t even know why I told you.”
    “Because I’m your sister?”
    “Maybe. Or maybe because I figured you might know something about suicide.”
    Claire let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Can’t say I do, Queenie. I’m fucked up in a lot of ways. But I like life. I’m all about the breathing.”
    Julia couldn’t pinpoint why, but for some reason this surprised her. She’d always assumed Claire’s life was miserable. That Claire was lonely and barely hanging on. Maybe that was what she’d needed to believe. “And please don’t tell anyone else. I’m going to deal with this. I am.”
    Claire nodded slowly. “Okay. You got it. But if he starts eyeballing Dad’s shotgun cabinet or something, I can’t make any guarantees.”
    Julia’s eyes widened. “Oh, God,” she moaned. She leaned over and put her hands on her knees, hanging her head miserably.
    Tentatively, Claire reached out and rested a hand on her sister’s back. Distantly, Julia realized this was the first time her sister had touched her in . . . a decade, at least. After a second of thought, Claire started rubbing between Julia’s shoulder blades, nervously, almost apologetically, and Julia leaned into it, surprised by how comforting it felt. “Hey. Queenie. Julia. He’ll be okay.”
    The wind roared through again, and both of them stiffened against it, Claire squinching her eyes shut and Julia hunching her shoulders. Claire’s curly hair seemed to stick straight out to the side. Finally, Julia straightened up and swiped her coat sleeve across her eyes. She took a deep, snotty breath. “I hope you’re right, Claire.”
    “Can we go in now?” Claire asked, blinking against the sleet, which had begun to pelt them anew.
    Julia felt her coat pocket again, considered another cigarette, knowing that if smoking was bad for her, smoking outside in a blizzard probably somehow made it even worse.
    It was just . . . she didn’t feel ready to face everyone inside again. Didn’t want to wonder if anyone had overheard her conversation with Dusty. If anyone had picked up that something was off with Eli. Didn’t want to turn her guilty face to them, dare them to figure out that something was going on.
    Not to mention the Maya/Claire/Bradley drama. That had gotten old eight years ago. And after her conversation with Claire, Julia wasn’t sure where her allegiance should lie. Claire had always maintained her innocence. But Maya was nothing if not resolute in her decisions. The girl could hold a damn grudge, that was for sure. Even if she was the one in the wrong.
    Over the course of their sisterhood, Julia had always sided with Maya over Claire. Mostly because that was how it had always been: Maya and Julia versus Claire. Maya was smart, sharp, driven, just like Julia. They played the same games when they were little. They had similar aspirations. They protected each other from their father. They both wanted that protection.
    But Claire. Artistic Claire. Head-in-the-clouds Claire, who couldn’t care less if her jeans were ripped and who preferred her clothes to come from a thrift store. Claire, who jumped off the barn roof because she wanted to prove that girls could, who swam in the pond all alone at night, who always did exactly the opposite of what their mom told them to do. Claire, who never needed protection, because she always protected herself.
    How was Julia to relate to that?
    And why did she suddenly, now that she had a son she didn’t understand, feel like Claire could understand him?
    She took a deep breath, smiled, steeled herself. “Yeah, let’s. It’s cold out here.”
    “Mom’s got more wine on the stove,” Claire said, leading the way to the steps. She turned. “She seem okay to you?”
    Julia blinked. “Mom? I guess. Her husband just died.”
    “I know,” Claire said.