I heard covers rustling like she was rolling over. I pictured her comforter halfway off her bed; her wavy dark brown hair with a nest in the back; her chocolate eyes with dark circles under them; the floor of her room littered with books, clothes, and papers . . . like usual. The thought made me feel like my insides were melted caramel.

Another call came in: a video call . . . from Frankie.

Sighing, I answered it.

“Hi,” I said, smoothing my hair self-consciously since I could see myself now.

A pang of homesickness hit me when Frankie filled the screen. She looked exactly as I’d pictured her. She had on a gray tank top with a blue strap showing underneath, and her bangs were so long, hitting the top of her cheekbones. Behind her, the window was open, making the sheer white curtain billow in with the breeze.

“I miss home,” I said, imagining the smell of the ocean through the screen.

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “So, what’s up?” she repeated. Frankie wasn’t a small-talk kind of person.

“Nothing, I just . . .” I called because I wish you’d called me. I wish you’d ask me if I’m okay. I know you won’t. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” She stared at herself.

“I mean about Colette,” I clarified. It’d been two and a half months since she’d died. The time that’d gone by felt like forever and five minutes at the same time.

“I know, I’m fine.”

“You’re . . . fine?” She sounded like Colette had meant nothing to her, which I knew wasn’t true. Still, it was frustrating how, on the outside, Frankie seemed completely okay. “I don’t understand why you’re not sadder,” I admitted without thinking. Often, I filtered what I said to my sister, fearing she’d get upset. Maybe it was the distance that made me feel braver, but today I didn’t hold back. “I don’t get why I’m the only one who seems to be breaking down.”

“You seem fine to me,” Frankie said plainly, surprising me by not yelling about what I’d said. “Gabe says everyone grieves in their own way.” Gabe was Frankie’s therapist. “You cry; I don’t. It’s not like I don’t miss her.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s just . . .”

Other people might have asked, “Just what?” Frankie didn’t.

The conversation wasn’t making me feel better, so I decided to switch topics. “Hey, did Colette ever tell you the ghost story about William and Lilah?”

“I hate ghost stories. Why would she tell me one?” Frankie kept her eyebrows natural instead of plucking them, so when she pulled them together, like right now, it was dramatic.