At home, Ainsley had not only taken the spaghetti sauce out to defrost, she also had a fresh loaf of bread cooking in the bread maker, filling the house with the delicious, yeasty smell of a country bakery. A sloshing, watery sound told me the dishwasher was halfway through a cycle already, too, and the linoleum floor had a “newly mopped” gleam. Even scrubbed down, though, our house was generally too full of clutter to look clean, and the kitchen was no different. Every counter surface was occupied by decorative knickknacks, from succulents in terra-cotta pots to boxes full of baking utensils to assorted mug racks. The walls were covered in pots and pans and knives hanging from various wooden displays, and the fridge was adorned with magnets to celebrate every big moment in our family’s lives, from Disneyland trips to a Hawaii beach vacation to my kindergarten graduation to a picture of Ainsley and Mom on the courthouse steps the day of Ainsley’s legal name change.

Since she’d started community college, Ainsley had become preoccupied with “earning her keep” around the house, like Mom hadn’t inundated her with reasons to go to college here instead of L.A. all of Ainsley’s junior year. Mom, it seemed, wasn’t ready to have the house totally empty every other week when I went to my dad’s. Not that I was complaining; not only was Ainsley a much better cook than Mom, but she was, incidentally, one of my best friends. Which was one of the weapons Mom had had in her “convince Ainsley to stick around” arsenal.

I dumped my bag by the kitchen table and slid onto one of the benches, trying and failing to catch Ainsley’s eye. As usual, she was wearing one of her personalized altered creations, a cream sweater with three-quarter sleeves and winglike frills running down the sides.

“Are you thinking of doing garlic bread, love?” Mom asked Ainsley, opening the fridge to get some water.

Ainsley glanced at the humming bread maker. “That’s a good idea, actually.”

I cleared my throat. “Ainsley, you said you were gonna alter one of your dresses for me.”

Now, to clarify, Ainsley had said no such thing. She was good for a lot of stuff, but sharing her clothes and makeup was not, and never had been, her strong suit. It did the trick, though. She looked at me, finally, albeit in bewilderment, and I took the chance to widen my eyes at her meaningfully. “Oh, of course,” she lied, tucking a lock of her long brown hair behind one ear. Her tell. Lucky Mom wasn’t paying much attention. “I have a few minutes now if you want to look.”

“Yep, yep, let’s go.”