The Space Between Sisters Read Online Free Page B

to the guest room, where the cat in question could be seen lounging, luxuriously, on one of the twin beds. “Sasquatch,” Poppy announced, “has got the world by the tail.”
    â€œIt certainly looks that way,” Win said, with a little sigh, and Poppy wondered, for the thousandth time, how her sister could be so immune to Sasquatch’s insouciant charm. But, alas, she was. Now, for instance, Win starting clearing her throat, and when Poppy asked her what was wrong she said, “Nothing. It just . . .” She rubbed her neck. “It just feels a little scratchy, that’s all.”
    â€œAre you going to be okay?” Poppy asked, with what she hoped was the appropriate amount of concern. Privately, she was of the opinion that Win exaggerated her cat allergy.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” Win said. “I’ll just take some Benadryl. But, Poppy . . . does he really have to stay here for the whole summer?”
    â€œ Yes, Win. He really does,” Poppy said, feeling hurt all over again. “And I’ve already told you, I’ll stay on top of his shedding. I mean it. Girl Scout’s honor,” she added, raising her hand.
    â€œYou were never a Girl Scout, Poppy.”
    â€œNo, but you were. And you totally rocked that green sash with all the badges on it,” Poppy said, pulling her down the hallway so that they were standing outside the door to Win’s bedroom. “Now go to sleep,” she added, giving her sister an affectionate push in the direction of her bed. But as she was doing this, something in Win’s room caught her eye.
    â€œWin, you’re not still doing this, are you?” she asked, walking over to her sister’s dresser. She frowned as she examined the objects arranged on top of it. There was a photograph of Win and Kyle, taken at a Fourth of July parade, a set of ticket stubs from the Minnesota State Fair, and a paper coaster from Kieran’s, the little Irish pub down the street from the apartment they’d lived in after they’d gotten married. So she was still doing this, Poppy thought. Still arranging these little shrines to her marriage. A marriage that had now been over for longer than it had lasted.
    But Win, as if knowing how short it would be, had saved everything from it—every photograph, every postcard, every memento—and put them all in neatly labeled cardboard boxes that Poppy referred to, privately, as “the marriage files.” Periodically, Win would take things out of the boxes and arrange them on her dresser top. Sometimes, they would be random things. But most of the time, they would all be part of a larger theme. Like now, for instance, the theme was obviously summer, or more specifically, the last summer Win and Kyle had spent together. And this would have been sweet, too, Poppy thought, fingering the ticket stubs to the state fair, if it wasn’t also, at the same time, a little . . . well , morbid . She looked at Win now and shook her head.
    â€œ What? What’s wrong with my doing this?” Win asked, defensively. “These are just some memories, that’s all.”
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with it,” Poppy said. “It’s just . . .” She paused, trying to find the right way—the kindest way—to put this into words. “Look, don’t get me wrong,” she said, finally. “I loved Kyle. You know that. And I loved the two of you together. And by all means, Win, keep a picture of him out, or a picture of the two of you out. But this stuff”—she indicated the dresser top—“put this stuff away. Otherwise you’re going to be like thatcharacter in the Dickens novel we had to read in high school. Remember her? What was her name? The woman who used to wear her old wedding dress all the time and—”
    â€œMiss Havisham,” Win said, impatiently. “Her name was Miss Havisham. And the novel was Great