Sisters, by Any Other Names

Special thanks to kenjisato for beta reading this piece. Due to its interminable length, I had to edit it myself. Thus, all errors are doubly my own fault, and likewise no one else's.

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My girlfriend's the younger of a set of Irish twins; never mind that her family's a mix of seven different ancestries. I'm sure Irish is in there somewhere, though it's not plainly evident. Her skin is that strange European blend that tricks you into thinking it's a light brown whenever you try to conjure up a memory. Only when you see her in person again do you realize she's neither brown nor tanned. She's just not pale as a ghost.

Her defining characteristic, in my mind, is that she always looks like she's up to something. If she were a man, I think it'd be incredibly unattractive; it'd make her seem ratlike. I'd be checking the silverware drawer constantly and waiting for the police to knock on my door -- or maybe an angry parent with a pregnant daughter in tow. Since she's not, I think it's adorable. Her mousy brown hair, when it's not pinned back or to the sides, offers her a curtain of bangs to plot behind. She tends to slouch a bit whenever she's deep in thought, and, on top of that, she's a pacer. When she gets mad, her face reminds me of a super-cute cartoon bunny rabbit trying its best to show you how much it hates you. It's hard to take it seriously. I just want to hug her and pet her until she melts into me and that scrunched-up little puss softens. I also want to slide my hand down her pants and stroke her pussy and clit until her hate-face turns into an O-face. I imagine the leg thumping and everything.

If I were a less sensitive and diplomatic boyfriend, I think my knees and ankles would've been gnawed off by now. The whole "solve all problems with sex" thing remains an idle and unshared fantasy.

I suppose I should offer some additional context: I'm over six feet tall, and I take care of myself. I'm not heavy, but I've got some muscle on me. Sam is five-foot-three and forever looks like she could use another sandwich. She's my sneaky little pixie, and I love her dearly. Even though it's incredibly tempting to make her mad just to see that cute face, I usually restrain myself.

So, that's one Irish twin out of two, raising the question that becomes our segue.

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On an otherwise-unremarkable Friday night last April, we had Sam's sister, Max -- sorry, Maxine - over for dinner. It was a sure sign she'd broken up with her latest boyfriend. She would disappear from our lives for a month or two whenever she got into a relationship, and even her social media presence would become a one-way street. You could check out a billion pictures of her and her new man, and get a manic contact high from the attached blurbs -- diabetes too, usually. An actual response to a message, though? Good luck. If you didn't want her to be pissed at you when the inevitable happened, though, you'd better have tossed her some likes or shares or whatever the hell else they're called.

Maxine wasn't pissed at us that night, because Sam was a very good sister -- unreasonably good, sometimes, was my opinion. Instead, Maxine was her usual post-breakup self: breathy sighs, cringeworthy platitudes, and a bottomless need for this-thing-I-know-not-what called "support." I swore she played a game with herself: how much she could talk about her ex and their relationship without technically talking about either of them. I just wished it didn't require props -- you know, us. Calling us her audience would have been too generous.

She breezed through the door at around six thirty and bombarded Sam with those ridiculous faux-European kisses. She's a few inches taller than her younger sister, and she would always bend down to make the scene even sillier -- a little at the knees, but a little too much from the waist at the same time. When it was my turn, she'd rise up on her tiptoes and turn her cheek expectantly. We'd both hover-hand, and I'd give her a light peck. In return, she'd give me exactly one line. That night was no different.

"You're still taking good care of my Samantha, right, William?" she asked sternly.

"As long as she'll let me," I replied.

Then came the weird, knowing look -- another tradition. It seemed to say, I know you are, but I'm still watching you like a hawk, mister! It made me a little uncomfortable, like it always did, and also offended me just a smidge. I found it laughable that she thought she could drop back into our lives every few months and act like she was her sister's keeper. Mind you, I counted my blessings that she wasn't up in our business very often.

Maxine also didn't do irony, sarcasm, or self-deprecation. In my mind, there was no way she was cracking a silent joke about her own self-absorption with those stares of hers.

If you could forget absolutely everything about their personalities, it was eminently plausible that Sam and Maxine were siblings. Granted, Maxine did a lot of work on herself that distinguished her from her easygoing sister. Her tan looked natural; her hair, not so much. The platinum-blonde shade didn't really complement her skin tone, but that was just one man's opinion. To her credit, she didn't dress up like a Barbie girl or a socialite. Since you've already figured out I wasn't her biggest fan, I'll give you the summary I mostly kept to myself: Maxine was Basic Bitch Premium. Ever since I'd first met her, my take had been that she'd be much prettier if she stopped trying so hard and went with a "Max" vibe instead. It worked wonders for Sam. There's this combination of tomboy and fem that, to me, is the best of both worlds, and Sam nailed it. I thought Maxine-cum-Max would, too, if she'd just give it a chance. She had the baseline features for it: ultra-feminine, such that all the usual tomboy stuff wouldn't tip her over into actually looking butch.

Sam showed me pictures sometimes of her older sister's various international exploits. When Maxine traveled to some out-of-the-way place and not everything went perfectly, I caught a glimpse of the Max I'd sloppily constructed inside my mind. It was to Maxine's credit, I supposed, that she was willing to put those pictures up at all. I didn't think Maxine actually tapped into "Max" during her trips, though. I didn't think traveling was the cure for what ailed her. The "Max" inside my head knew how to just... stop. She knew how to relax, breathe, unclench, and be okay with herself in a quiet moment of solitude -- one that didn't need to be turned into a social media post, either. I suppose it would've been really shitty of me if "Max" weren't happier than Maxine, but I'll admit it was a little shitty of me that "Max" was so much more like Sam.

I also know it sounds like I'd given the subject an unhealthy amount of thought. What can I say? As best I could tell, Maxine was going to be my sister-in-law in another few years. On top of that, Sam seemed very invested in her -- highly disproportionately to how often Maxine actually showed up to spend time with her in person. I'm kind of a relic. A so-called relationship between sisters comprised mostly of social media replies -- more those than even texts! - didn't seem all that healthy to me. It seemed very one-sided, and there was digital evidence to bear that out.

After the awkward greetings were taken care of, the three of us made our way to the living room. Maxine eyed the cheese and crackers like they were a temptation laid out by Satan himself. Sam had one cracker with a slice of sharp cheddar. I had more than that; I wasn't going to let the pepper jack or the smoked-bacon gouda just sit there. I did eventually catch a glance from Sam that I should cool it, so I did.

Wine was offered; Maxine politely declined, and we were ready with her water with lemon. She was very gracious; she wasn't a cartoon villain or anything. She was a minor antagonist at best, and one that the writers occasionally let you know you should be laughing at.

After about four painful attempts at small talk, Sam and I basically gave up. It was all awkward silences and dumb questions about dinner until dinner was actually served. Maxine performed a one-woman play for us, entitled I've Temporarily Conceded The Phone I'm Addicted To Is Unhealthy, But God Damn Do I Want To Check It. The two of us, meanwhile, didn't dare split our focus. It would have been so insensitive and unsupportive.

I was happy to be drafted to bring out the food -- nothing fancy, just a home-cooked square meal -- and relieved when Maxine showed a genuine interest in her big bowl of salad. I'd say we enjoyed about three minutes of peaceful, happy silence before the next show started up.

"It's just... things change," Maxine said, treating her salad fork like a queen's scepter and a conductor's baton.

By the way, you can go ahead and assume that, unless Sam or I managed to break up her flow, she sighed, breathed, or exhaled pretty much everything she said, and put forth most of it as grand epiphanies or ancient wisdom. While the "Eat, Pray, Love" stuff was constant, the other stuff was her post-breakup mode. That meant it was basically all I'd ever witnessed in person.

"I have noticed that, yes," Sam said very seriously. I suppressed a smile. Maxine was too self-absorbed to really get her sister. Sam knew that, and regularly flirted with danger.

"People change," Maxine continued. "And you know, I don't feel like I change that much. Of course I'm on a journey. Of course. But I swear, it's like whiplash. I don't want to put out negativity and say that people are lying, but it hurts. They're one person one day, and there's a connection, and you take the plunge, and then before you know it they're someone different."

"Different how?" Sam asked. "You know, just as an example. Not a specific person."

I put my head down and focused intently on my baked potato. I was a chintzy prop in Maxine's game and a terrible player of Sam's. I dreaded the day when Maxine would wake up and realize that Sam had been sassing her for years; I didn't want her to be able to say the same of me.

It didn't happen that night. Maxine took the question seriously, and completely missed the followup jab. "Well, energy levels, for one," she said. "You'd be amazed how many people love to travel, dance, and dine out until they suddenly don't. And then there's the disengagement. I make memories. I want to preserve them and share them. I'm not playing some Insta-game just to get into someone's pants -- but no; no toxicity. No."

I heard her do some theatrical breathing exercise. The sound alone was enough to conjure an image in my mind, and that image almost broke me. I wanted to take another bite of potato just to give myself something else to focus on, but I was genuinely worried I might choke on it or spit it out.

"Well I think it's great you're following your heart," Sam said, "but maybe the real problem is expectation. Given all the traveling you do, and all the stuff you're interested in, maybe short flings are the way to go, and the main reason you're so crestfallen when they end is because you've internalized societal expectations that simply don't mesh with your lifestyle."

Did I mention Sam's really smart? It's another thing I love about her, and that Maxine barely noticed most of the time. Then, though, there was the occasional birthday or holiday message wherein Maxine's praise for her younger sister was so on-point, and sounded so sincere, that I could hardly believe she wrote it herself. Half the reason I thought about Maxine so much was because her relationship with Sam was such an enigma.

Maxine got quiet all of a sudden. That made me look up from my pan-seared chicken breast. I caught her looking at me; her brown eyes seemed a little sad, and deeper than I'd ever remembered them being. She looked away quickly, but Sam noticed the moment too.

"You okay, sis?" Sam asked.

That was too direct, so Maxine threw up all the White Girl Instagram filters again. "The patriarchy does do quite the number on us," she said. "It's true. I think what I really need right now is a deep cleanse and an intense meditation regimen. There's a place that's doing hot yoga near my apartment, too, so I'm going to go check that out."

"Hot yoga?" Sam asked. "Don't they do that naked?"

Maxine squirmed in her seat, but quickly recovered. She took on the role of bemused instructor. "No, Samantha, not necessarily. 'Naked Yoga,' as it's called, is basically any yogic tradition that some enterprising studio decides to spice up to draw in customers, and the tradition itself often suffers for it. Further, given the cultural context, I can't say I approve. Americans -- men, especially -- do not know how to handle it with grace."

"Ah," Sam replied, nodding sagely. "Well there's nothing wrong with taking some time to recenter and reconnect with yourself."

"Get out of my mind!" Maxine exclaimed, her eyes going wide. They sparkled, but all the depth was gone. "One of these days I'm going to get you into a class with me."

"I'm pretty connected to myself, sis," Sam said with a smile. Maxine's "mind" was a stack of tired scripts. No intrusion had been necessary. We'd heard it all before.

Maxine waved it off -- without the fork, that time. "You never know what you're hiding from yourself," she said. "Meditation and even yoga can be scary for that very reason. There's a lot of subconscious resistance to it in western cultures."

"I suppose you're right," Sam replied. "You never know."

Maxine missed the emphasis. I didn't, but it took me a minute to catch up. I raised my eyebrows, but lowered my head back down to my dinner plate, too. Just how close can you get to telling somebody they're a shallow, hypocritical bore without saying it outright? Sam seemed determined to find out.

The night played out predictably, for the most part. Maxine finally accepted a glass of white wine with ice cubes in it; tiny refills added up to another glass in short order. Once she was tipsy, she was willing to reminisce with Sam a little about childhood nonsense, talk about their parents and a few other relatives, and even discuss what she was doing for work. Somehow, she always managed to find another job after "following" her "heart." That's how it is when kids have trust funds. I was certainly biased, but I thought Sam's commitment to getting her master's in library sciences was more laudable than spending a few months at a time as a health-and-fitness-industry quasi-guru. I would've been happy to support us in the meantime with my completely generic white-collar job, but Sam -- or her family money, rather -- paid her fair share. She also worked as a teaching assistant, and still clocked in a few hours at the university library. I loved that about her, too.

There was a divergence or two from the usual script that night. Halfway through the half-hour-long pre-goodbye phase of the evening, Maxine shot me another couple of looks. I'm not crafty like Sam, but I'm not completely dense. They were look looks. I pretended not to notice. She was coming out of a breakup and feeling the wine. I already knew Sam would bring it up after she left and we'd have a good laugh about it.

To my surprise, Sam also invited Maxine over again -- Sunday afternoon, two days hence. That was usually when Sam and I did nothing - absolutely nothing at all. Sure, we'd have some sex, but otherwise it was our time to step away from all of our various responsibilities and just be lazy bums together. I bit my tongue and held my poker face. Maxine equivocated, as I'd hoped she would. Sam got in real close on the couch and touched her leg, then made puppy dog eyes. It was the hard sell: baby sister misses you. Maxine relented, and, notably, Sam wouldn't look at me. She knew I wasn't happy.

That left the goodbye itself. Maxine had sobered up a little, and she was ready to repeat the intro as the outro. Sam wouldn't let it happen. The two sisters did a strange dance with their eyes locked onto each other, and Sam won it. She moved in for a real hug, gave Maxine a smooch on her cheek -- awfully close to her dry-matte-red lips, I thought -- and then whispered something in her ear. She whispered a lot, actually, and Maxine's reactions were inscrutable. That wasn't because she was in any state to hide anything. It seemed like there were so many different reactions in play that none could fully break through or hang on.

When Sam finally released her, I moved in. Sam didn't move very far away. I felt like I was intruding on their conclave. Maxine and I came together awkwardly; she looked uncomfortable. She didn't rise up on her tiptoes, so I didn't know what to do.

I felt Sam's hand on my ass. It shocked the hell out of me. She nudged me forward. I think Maxine and I both saw the confusion and discomfort on each other's faces, but I don't think she noticed the 'encouragement' her younger sister had given me.

"Max" flashed in my mind for a moment. I shrugged, and decided to just go for it.

"Thanks for coming over, Maxine," I said, moving in for a real hug. "You're welcome here any time."

Maxine didn't step back or resist in any way, but I could tell she was out of sorts. I decided to use my six inches of extra height and more-than-fifty-pounds of extra weight as an excuse, if it came to that. Oh no, Lenny hugged and squeezed; he does that sometimes.

Maxine never did hug me properly, but she let me hug her. She was surprisingly warm, and I could've sworn I felt her warm up even more while she was pressed against me.

"Thank you, William," she said as we parted. She lightly patted my chest with a few fingers. "You keep taking good care of my little sister."

"Always," I said.

Then I fucked up.

She was rising up on her tiptoes -- or so I thought. I moved in for the kiss at the usual height, assuming she'd turn her face. It was tradition; it was habit. Unfortunately, she didn't rise up on her tiptoes, and she didn't turn her face, and so I ended up giving up her a kiss right on her forehead.

I pulled away and felt the flush on my cheeks. "Oops," I said. I tried to make it sound playful.

Maxine looked stunned - like somebody had snuck up on her on the street, swatted her on the ass, and then pushed a bouquet of roses into her arms before sprinting away. She didn't blush -- or her makeup hid it - but her lips parted in surprise. She blinked a few times, then finally met my gaze.

"Sorry," she said. Then she looked over at Sam. "Sorry. Sorry! I-"

"Oh my god, relax," Sam said. "He's practically family, and he's the one who kissed you. It's totally fine."

Maxine looked back at me. I made stupid gestures with my hands, poorly miming out how our hello and goodbye kisses usually went. "I thought you were gonna, you know, like..."

"Right," she said. "Right!" Finally, she was able to wave it off. "Too much wine. Samantha's absolutely right, though; it's fine! Oh, come here you big lug."

Maxine moved in and gave me a hug. I was going to let her do all the work, but then I felt Sam's hand on my ass again. I brought my arms around and gave her older sister a squeeze. It felt good; it also felt real. That was rare with Maxine. Despite all my misgivings about her, it made me feel a little special.

We parted again, and Maxine moved quickly. She got up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on my cheek before I could react at all. She scanned my face -- which I was quite sure betrayed my surprise -- and her eyes flashed self-satisfaction.

"Have a wonderful evening, you two," she said, and made to leave.

"Drive safe!" Sam said.

Per tradition, we went to the window on the opposite side of the condo and watched Maxine walk to her car. Once she was inside and sorted, we pulled down the shade and started cleanup duty.