Seb dissolves into tears, dropping my bag. His broad shoulders shake as his large hands cradle his face. One moves to his heart. I glance to the second floor for help, then back toward the front door—but we’re alone. Part of me wants to sympathize with him and share Angela experiences together, to revel in our memories of her and support each other as best we can. Instead I stand frozen, hoping he remembers who he is and who I am as quickly as he lost his shit.

A sob-hiccup escapes from his fingers.

My hand rises, hesitates at his back, then pats lightly.

I have no idea what the hell to say here. Seriously. I just want to do what I came to do and go home. I’m holding on by a thread myself and can’t spare a second of comfort for anyone else. A grimace slides down my face as I recall all the material left to review so I’m up to speed before classes start in a week. It sounds callous, but finally starting medical school is all that’s kept me going these last few weeks, last few years. My parents and I have been working toward this since high school, and it’s only now within reach. Angela, on the other hand, was never interested in following such a traditional path. She always munched baguettes to her own beat—obsessed with World War II, literature, and cultures since we were kids. The odd lady out, she liked to say. Hence why she stayed on as a doctoral candidate in the Sorbonne’s history program.

At least, that’s what she’d decided three years ago—the last time we talked.

Seb takes a measured breath. “Please excuse me. It has been a very hard time.” Deep-blue eyes dart to mine. “I am so sorry, I mean, of course you know that. Angela is your sister. It is—”

“Fine. I’d just like to get up to her apartment. Whenever you’re ready,” I add, relieved that he’s stopped blubbering. Does that make me heartless? No. It makes me pragmatic, efficient, and no doubt mired in some selfish stage of grief.

He sniffles, then continues up the stairs, bag in hand. We move at a melancholy pace. When we reach the landing of Angela’s floor, Seb turns to me with a weak smile. I stand awkwardly while he digs in his pockets for the key.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about you,” I begin. “Do you live here? How long have you known . . .” No. “How long did you know my sister?”

He pauses, examining the key ring. A pocket flashlight hanging from it catches the light. “She did not share much about me?”

I flounder for the right words. Even I’m aware of how hurtful this could be. “No. Well, we really haven’t spoken in three years. Since our parents’ funeral.”