My sister and I have always been close. That’s not to say we don’t get bogged down in the same occasional, passive-aggressive ruts that other pairs of siblings do—we do. But we both want to see this joint dream through so badly, we’re able to let those minor dramas slide. From the start, we’ve had a clear plan in place: we’d play to our strengths. I might weigh in on a piece of jewelry and she might offer an opinion on how we spend our budget, but she has the final say on the creative side and I have the final say on the business side. That makes what I’m about to discuss with her even worse. She’s savvy enough to weigh in on our finances, but the ultimate decision will be mine. And I need her input.

The buzzer blares. I push open the front door and walk up a flight of stairs to their apartment on the second floor. Liv is waiting for me by the door, and I can smell Sophie’s cooking wafting into the hall—something spicy, though I can’t identify what. I hug Liv. She’s in an old, oversized T-shirt from her college marching band and clutching a plastic-covered library book (Sophie’s type: nerds).

To borrow a phrase from every New York real estate listing ever, the apartment is “cozy.” But they’ve managed to make it homey, too. The living room walls are painted like pale sunshine and covered in custom art, mostly from their friends. An afghan made by Liv’s mom is thrown over their tweed couch, and a pair of shelves are overflowing with stacks of books organized by the colors of the rainbow.

“I can’t remember the last time you voluntarily gave up your Saturday night to hang out at home with us,” Sophie calls from the kitchen. She’s in an apron stirring something in a wok on the stove.

“Yeah, about that . . .” I slide onto one of the bar stools at the island that separates the cramped kitchen from the living room and plunk down the blocks of cheese. “I’m not exactly here for a fun Saturday night.”

“Well, jeez, thanks,” Liv says, pushing up her glasses.

“No, no, I mean, I got some not-so-fun news from Roy.” Our landlord.

“Oh.” Sophie stops stirring. She turns away from the stove to lean her elbows on the kitchen island.

“It’s our rent,” I say, letting the explanation tumble out in a rush: the rent hike, the October deadline to make a decision.

My words hang in the air.

Liv is the first to speak. I’ve come to love her over the years, but I despise when she interjects herself into our work. It’s not like I run over to her law firm and negotiate divorce settlements for her. (Of course, she’s a divorce attorney. Sophie says opposites attract.)