“What do you mean?” I try to catch the bartender’s eye and fail. He’s mixing some sort of tiki drink, the bar’s specialty.

Walsh gives me a look. “Be real. Something’s up with you that has nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t everything have to do with you?”

“Usually. But come on, I know you. Spill.”

One of the bartenders comes over—a twentysomething with a flamboyant, nineteenth-century mustache. He lifts two full martini glasses and sets them on the bar in front of us, forearm muscles rippling beneath full-sleeve tattoos. The drinks are yellow-pink and frothy with blueberries floating on top.

“We didn’t order these,” I say.

“For two pretty ladies? On the house.” He looks exclusively at Walsh as he says this and slips a piece of paper across the bar toward her. A name—Miles—is scribbled in blue along with a phone number.

I strain not to roll my eyes.

“Wow, thank you,” she croons, flashing him a Cheshire cat grin. Her crystal nose piercing sparkles in the dim light as she studies the number, slips it into her pocket with a shrug, and takes a sip of her drink.

The bartender’s eyes smolder as he turns away.

“Hey,” I yell after him. “Can we also get a ginger ale, an order of roast beef sliders, nachos, and four shots of—what should we get?” I ask Walsh.

“Something scrumptious. Surprise us,” she calls to the bartender.

I push my credit card across the bar. My fingers tense automatically at the thought of the charges I’ll see on my next bill. At least a pay raise is on the horizon—hopefully. And besides, I know Tory and Christina will throw a few bucks my way to cover their share.

The bartender takes my card with a nod. “You got it.” He winks at Walsh, who openly ogles him as he puts in our food order. Not that I care if she’s interested in this guy, but the surge of familiarity over the situation makes my chest ache.

My little sister is objectively beautiful. Me? I’m cute. Not pretty, exactly, but cute. I have startingly light brown eyes and nicely defined eyebrows—Mom says they have character—but my jaw is too severe and my nose is too sharp, according to conventional beauty standards anyway.

Walsh is soft curves and gentle slopes, while I’m harsh angles.

Rolling waves vs. a rocky shore. Happy-go-lucky charm vs. resting bitch face.

Don’t get me wrong. Now that I’m older, I’ve embraced my looks, but I haven’t always. Because ever since we were teenagers, given the choice between me or Walsh, guys choose Walsh. Hands down, every time. And damn it if that doesn’t kick my confidence right in the balls. Ovaries? Whatever.