It’s with a gracious smile she outstretches her hand. “Please.” She motions toward another set of automatic doors, and when those open, it’s with a heavy dose of steam.

My sister and I step through, into a rain-forest themed room.

Large leaves cascade from every inch of the walls, down the sides and hang high above, small lights threaded throughout, the soft sounds of showers filling the room.

Two large stone-like baths are set against the wall, a waterfall leading into the foot of them, a set of bamboo tables outstretched on the opposite side, steaming towels on top of them and a tray of fresh fruit in the middle.

Monti walks over, picking off a small piece of pineapple, and plucks it between her lips.

We drop our robes and slip into the steaming tubs, breathing in the steam and allowing it to open our lungs and pores.

“Seriously, I haven’t done this in months.” My sister moans, and I fight a grin when the masseuse who slipped into the room slowly backs out of it. “This is amazing.”

She rolls her head along the back of the stone, her eyes meeting mine.

Monti and I didn’t lose touch when she came here last year. We talked all the time, almost as much as when she was home, and we still do. I text her through the day or she me to the point where I consider us close, but close is subjective, and I think Monti might disagree.

She and I talk about the annoying guy who eats during her lectures and new items added to the coffee house menus or joke about what might be said when Gennie reports back to our mom each week. It’s more chatter, easy flowing conversation that provides a sense of a connection, but at the surface is where we stay.

It’s not for her lack of trying, but at the end of the day, I am who I am, which happens to be what my sister fears the most, my mother’s creation.

A blank canvas to be filled and fussed with at the hands of another, without so much as a blink or care or concern. Taught to look without seeing, to smile without feeling, and to speak without interest.

I’m a Monet.

A chameleon.

I’m whatever I must be.

Monti doesn’t judge, never condemns, but I know she pities me. It’s a waste on her part, not that I have to tell her that.

She’s already aware.

“I’ve missed you, sister,” she whispers suddenly, her eyes softening.

I give her a pinched smile and look away.

“I asked them to send me over a profile for all the masseuses. Naturally, I get the hotter, larger-handed man, and picked the one with hairy knuckles for you.”

A laugh sputters from us both and just like that, she brings us back into our own kind of sisterhood.