“Oh, okay,” I tell her. “Cool. Don’t answer me. Just be gone for eighteen months, with five emails and two airmail packages constituting our relationship, then barge into my apartment and make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” she says, fumbling with the cabinet door as she pulls out a glass, then knocks on the spigot, filling it with water. “I will.”

I glare at her as she chugs the whole glass, then sets it down noisily.

“Katerina Wilmot. Answer me.”

“Jules was supposed to tell you.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What?”

“Jules. She didn’t tell you?” She opens the refrigerator and noses around. “Oh, hell yes. Mom cooked.” Shutting the fridge door with her hip, she sets down a breakfast casserole, finds a fork, and digs into it cold.

I nearly gag. Storming past her, I turn on the coffee maker, which wasn’t programmed to brew for another hour. I need caffeine. “Stop being cryptic,” I tell her. “Stop answering my questions with more questions.”

“Fuck’s sake.” She drops the fork and looks genuinely pissed. “Why are you two so functionally dysfunctional?”

“Uh . . . what?”

“Forget it,” she says around another bite. “Jules will tell you when she comes out of her room, the scaredy-cat. As for me, I’m here because I hit a rough patch.”

“What happened to your arm?”

She pauses mid-bite and looks up at me. “A rough patch. Literally. I biffed it while hiking for a job in some really rough Scottish landscape and broke the shit out of my shoulder.”

“Yeesh. Are you okay?”

“Splendid,” she says. “Thrilled to be home.”

I roll my eyes. “How long are you home?”

She shrugs her good shoulder. “Long enough to nurse a badly broken shoulder and recoup my income. Photojournalism with only your nondominant hand at your disposal is pretty impossible. And without photojournalism work, I don’t have money. And without money, I don’t have anywhere to live—before you say it, no, staying with Mom and Dad is not an option. I love them, but no.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Can I crash with you?” she says, a note of pleading in her voice. “I can’t afford to split rent yet, but I’ll take the sofa. Clean up after myself. I’ve got some photography friends here who I’m sure will pay me to do edits, enough that I can help with groceries and utilities until I figure out what’s next.”

“Of course, Kate. You know you’re welcome here.”

“Cool.” She polishes off a row of breakfast casserole and starts in on the next. “So, what’s going on with you? Mom said you and your boyfriend are on a break?”

Tears fill my eyes. Just thinking about Jamie hurts.

“Ah shit,” she groans. “You’re crying. Don’t cry.”