I put my chopsticks and takeout container back on the coffee table. “You have no idea what’s going on in my life. You never return my calls. I feel like a celebrity stalker or something.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s so busy in LA. Work is insane.”

My jaw clenched. This is always her excuse. Too busy, too important, too famous for her poor older sister, the loser. “You say you don’t have time to call, but I know you have time to brunch with friends at the Ivy.”

“Jane, I’ve invited you down to visit so many times.” She leaned forward, eyes earnest. “You can come anytime and stay with me and meet my friends. But you don’t. You always have excuses. I’m the one who always comes up here to visit, never the other way around. It’s a two-way street.”

I shook my head. “You know why I don’t come.”

Her hands flipped into the air. “You can’t let anxiety turn you into a hermit. I can’t be your only person. You need more people and to put herself out there. It’s scary but it’s worth it.”

I stood, picking up the empty food cartons to throw in the trash, walking away from her. “You don’t understand. It’s easy for you.”

“You don’t even try!” she yelled at my back.

I spun around. “You know what, I get enough criticism from Mom. I don’t need it from you too. You’re just like her.”

When the words flew out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back and swallow them. But it was too late. It was already out there. I’d compared her to Mom. Probably the biggest insult I could have flung at her.

She stared, her mouth gaping open. It took her a minute to speak. Maybe she was waiting for me to take it back, to apologize. I should have. But I didn’t.

“Maybe I should leave,” she finally said.

“Maybe you should.”

I should have apologized, but I was ashamed. She was right to be angry.

But now, she’s back and she’s trying and it’s time for me to try too.

And I know exactly when to catch her in the act.

It’s time to come clean. Put it behind us. I miss my sister. She’s basically my only friend and I totally shoved her out of my life.

I swing open the door right as she’s digging in her purse, probably for a pen and paper. “Eloise.”