“No.”
“You haven’t even heard what I was preparing to say!” she shrieked.
“I am fairly certain your next sentence was going to be, ‘I demand you come over here right now.’”
Another tense silence. “That is entirely irrelevant. Listen to me. Declan Vale is arriving tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew the name. Everyone in our unfortunate genetic pool knew the name.
Declan Vale was an internet phantom—a “lifestyle and luxury curator” who boasted an audience of over two million devoted followers.
Through some dark magic of relentless networking and aggressive direct messaging, Brooke had somehow convinced his management team to allow him to stop by Mom’s house while he was passing through our city.
Brooke referred to this impending visit as her Breakthrough Meeting.
My sister was forty-one years old. She vehemently refused to submit applications for any corporate position offering a salary below one hundred thousand dollars.
