It’s not like everyone magically evolves during the summer after graduation, but this has been Neda’s drumbeat since she returned home to quarantine with us: College is so much better than high school. And I hope she’s right, but sometimes I’m terrified that I won’t live long enough to find out. What if this is it? What if staying at home won’t save us? What if my dad got infected during the trip he made last Wednesday to Lunardi’s Market, and he accidentally gets me sick, and I die, and my life ends before it even has a chance to get better? I don’t want to disappear at eighteen. How does one learn to turn off their writer brain? I only want it to operate when I’m writing.

“You sure you don’t want to go to Yale?” Neda asks. “I’ll be your personal tour guide.”

“Ha!” I reply. “I don’t buy it. You basically ignored me all four years of high school.”

“Well, Yale would be my chance to make that up to you.”

But I know I won’t go to Yale, even if I am fortunate enough to get in. College is supposed to be where you can be your authentic self. No one will be able to see the real me if I’m always hanging out in my sister’s shadow.

“I’ll consider it,” I lie.

After forcing ourselves to swim a few laps, we get out of the pool, put on our bathrobes, and lie down on side-by-side chaise lounges. I take a sip from the portable mug of dark roast that Neda makes for us every morning. The coffee has become a ritual of sorts, too, and honestly, it’s not a bad way to start the day. While Neda opens the lid to her mug and breathes in the aroma, I make my best attempt to casually ask her how things are going with Gideon. She usually comes into my room before bed to either gush or vent about him, but last night, she did neither.

“Things are… better,” she says.

The smug tone in her voice instantly makes me feel jealous.

“I knew you were worried about nothing,” I reply, trying to sound supportive.

“I know.” She looks at me conspiratorially, then whispers: “Parisa, we had phone sex last night.”

Now I feel my heart sink, but I try to ignore it. I am not interested in my sister’s boyfriend. If anything, he’s become more like a big brother to me.

“Like, on FaceTime?” I ask.

“Hell no. Even I’m not sexually liberated enough to do something like that on camera. Plus, who knows who could be hacking into our phones these days. We went old-school and just did an audio call.”