Sunnyside (a Sebastian Stan story)

More Like Flying

We stopped for coffee before a quick run to get enough groceries to feed the extra mouth I had been unprepared for and found Sam spitting vitriol at her laptop. She glanced up at us, paused, and then looked up again. "Either they've put something in my tea or this is the twin sister."

"Could be both," I said, introducing her to Iz.

Isabel shook Sam's hand. "The journalist, right? You don't look like the older, wealthy woman, so you must be the journalist."

Sam laughed. "Maybe one day I can be both. You're the whirlwind, right? I hadn't heard that you were going to be in town."

"Nobody heard. Just packed up and drove. Which reminds me, Winnie, did you tell Mom and Dad I'm here?"

I shook my head. "Haven't talked to them."

She pulled her phone out. "Oops. I was supposed to dog-sit for them, but I guess they'll have to ask the neighbor. Order me whatever you're having, but bigger," She walked away to speak to my parents.

"She is exactly like you said she was," Sam said.

"She never slows down. But she's having a hard time right now, and I think maybe she needs to. We're doing movies and about a hundred desserts tonight at my place tonight if you want to join us. Just us girls. Isabel will tell you more personal things than you ever wanted to know, will ask questions you don't want to answer, and we can all get fat."

Sam considered for a moment before agreeing to come over. "I'll bring ice cream."

She did too; she brought a lot. I scrubbed and swept as quickly as I could that afternoon and rushed home to find Isabel doing what looked like some odd combination of yoga and interpretive dance in the middle of my apartment. I chased her into the shower and did some cleanup before Sam arrived, with three large containers of ice cream.

"Separate these from me, please ," she begged. "They've fused themselves to my arms. So, so cold."

I pried them from her arms. "Never heard of a bag?"

"I was running late," she chattered. "Didn't give the bag boy a chance. Just grabbed and ran."

"Well, you didn't have to rush. Iz is still in the shower." I waltzed to the freezer with the ice cream cartons, and pulled the cover off a ridiculous chocolate, peanut butter, and whipped cream concoction. Sam stuck a finger in and I swatted her.

"Good old Stan is fending for himself tonight?" she asked.

I smiled at the use of his last name. "Believe it or not, he's got friends of his own, and stuff to do. I think he'll be fine."

"He's at home eating take-out and playing with the dog?" She looked at me from under one peaked brow.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah. But only for a little while! I think he really is going out for a while."

Isabel came sweeping into the room, toweling her hair. A tank top with the words "Can You Not" on it was slipping off one shoulder. It reminded me of the way she looked when we used to play dress up in our mother's sundresses and I smiled at her.

"What?" She stopped mid-step and tossed her wet towel onto my couch.

"Just saw seven year old Iz for a second."

She rolled her eyes and pointed to the words on her shirt as she walked past me to the refrigerator.

"Nice to see you again, Isabel," Sam said, a bit sarcastically. She was not used to being ignored. Isabel does that all the time. It's not on purpose. She just gets so focused on something that's three steps ahead that she completely forgets the things that come before it. Things like saying hello.