Chapter 12 - The Tote Left Behind
She texted me at 9:17 that morning. I was already up, coffee going in my apartment kitchen, the light coming in gray through the window over the sink.
The message was short. Can you swing by around ten? Left my tote at your place last time. Also need to drop the cat keys if you're home.
I stared at it for a minute. The way she wrote it, like it was nothing. Like the last two weeks hadn't happened, like the calls from the caterer and her friends asking why the trip was off hadn't happened. Like I was still just the person who watched the cats.
I typed back, Yeah, ten's fine. I didn't add anything else.
She'd left the tote at my place after she came by to pick up the spare mail key the week after the airport. She'd set it down on my entryway table and then her phone rang and she left without it. I hadn't touched it. It sat there for four days on the little table by my door, right where her layered necklaces had caught the light when she leaned over to zip it.
When she knocked, it was exactly ten. I heard her heels in the hall.
She was in a different blazer, charcoal this time, but the same layered gold necklaces, and her hair was brushed out smooth. She smiled when I opened the door, that calm, composed smile from the airport, even though her eyes were tired.
"Hey," she said. "Thanks for this. I'm double-parked, honestly, and I have to run to the vet before they close for lunch."
She stepped just inside the entryway, not taking off her shoes. Her gaze went right to the tote on the table.
"Oh, perfect," she said. "And the keys? If you could just keep them for the weekend, that would be amazing. Muffin has that vet thing Thursday and I might be in the city."
There it was. The same ask, same tone as at the counter. You're staying home to watch my cats. Only now it was phrased like a favor between sisters.
I picked up the tote. It was lighter than I expected, the checkered canvas soft but structured, the tan leather trim smooth under my fingers. The strap had that faint crease where it had hung on her shoulder at the airport check-in hall, under those bright lights. I held it out to her with both hands.
She reached for it, but I didn't let go right away.
"I don't think I can do the cats this weekend," I said. My voice was quiet. I had practiced how to say it without making it sound like an accusation.
Her hand paused on the leather strap. "Oh," she said. She blinked once. "Is something going on?"
"I'm just not available to be the default anymore," I said. "You'll need to make another plan."
For a second she looked like she was going to push back, to explain why it was easier if I just did it. I could see her breathing in, that small pause she did before speaking at the counter when she decided to cancel everything. Her fingers tightened a little on the tote.
"It's just two days," she said, still holding the smile. "You know how they are with strangers."
"I know," I said. "But I'm not able to this time."
I let go of the tote then, and she pulled it onto her shoulder. It settled there, familiar. The checkered pattern against the dark blazer, the gold chains just above it. For so long I'd associated that bag with her having it all handled, with her being the one who got to go, while I stayed back and kept things tidy for her. Seeing it back on her shoulder felt right. Like it belonged with her, not with me.
She adjusted the strap. The little gold clasp on one of her necklaces had flipped backwards and I almost reached to fix it, the way I always did. I kept my hands at my sides.
"Okay," she said finally. She looked at me more directly. "I hear you."
She didn't say thank you in a way that was about the cats. She just nodded, once. "I'll call the sitter the building uses. She charges a lot, but—" She stopped herself. She didn't finish the sentence about what it cost to cancel or to rebook.
I reached over and picked up her spare key from the ceramic dish by the door where I'd left it, and the little silver cat-shaped keychain she used for her apartment. I placed it in her open palm instead of inside the tote.
"Here," I said.
She closed her fingers around it. "Right."
We stood there for a beat, the entryway quiet except for the hum of my refrigerator. Outside, a car honked once on the street.
"I should go," she said. "Meter's running."
"See you," I said.
May you like
She turned and opened the door, the tote bumping lightly against her hip as she went. I watched her walk down the hall toward the elevator, blonde hair and that checkered bag moving with her, until the door closed.
I didn't feel triumphant. I just felt lighter, like I'd set something down that was never actually mine to carry.
