The moment Sabrina twisted the key in the door and stepped into her shoebox-sized apartment, a wave of silence hit her like a frying pan to the face.
No music. No giggles. No Emma.
She kicked the door shut with her sneakers and winced when it creaked louder than her joints after a double shift. The takeout bag in her hand threatened to tear, but she rescued it like it was a newborn pup, placing it gently on the kitchen counter.
"Emma?" she called out, knowing damn well she was talking to a ghost. It was nearly seven o'clock, and the girl was MIA. Again.
She peeled off her shoes, one toe at a time, and tossed her hoodies over the back of the chair. The air smelled like soy sauce, old coffee, and existential dread. Perfect.
"You could've at least left a note," she muttered, opening the fridge and immediately regretting it. A single yogurt cup stared back at her like it was judging her life choices. Fair enough.
Sabrina slumped into the chair, stretching her legs out until they dangled off the other side of her rickety table. It wobbled like her mental stability.
She stared at the empty chair across from her, the one Emma usually plopped into, chattering about school, boys, or the latest drama with her weirdo friends who were somehow all allergic to responsibility.
Where was she?
Out with friends?
Staying late for choir practice again?
Avoiding her exhausted big sister, who's turned into a one-woman circus trying to juggle rent, debt, and dreams that smelled like fried dumplings?
Sabrina exhaled hard, rubbing her face. "This is on me," she mumbled into her palms. "She's not just disappearing. I'm pushing her away with my world-class disappearing act every time I clock in."
Work, stress, bills—repeat. And somehow, in the middle of this survival marathon, Emma and she become two ships passing in the night. Except her ship was leaking, and Emma's had probably found a party cruise.
Sabrina stood up with a groan and wandered toward Emma's room. Empty bed. Neat desk. No charged phone. At least she didn't run away to Mexico. Yet.
Maybe she should have made time to watch that horror movie with her sister last week, or said yes to pancakes at midnight. She should stop being so busy surviving and start being a sister again before it's too late.
Grabbing her phone, Sabrina texted her:
Sabrina:Where are you, punk? I brought noodles. Leftover guilt is extra spicy tonight.
Emma:Chill, I'm at Zoe's. Movie night. Back soon. Save me dumplings, tyrant chef.
Sabrina smiled. A little relief washed over her. Emma wasn't mad. Or distant. Just... being a teenager. But still.
She stared at the blinking cursor after her message and then typed again:
Sabrina:Let's do pancakes this weekend. Your way. Even if you add bananas like a monster.
Emma:Yessss. It's a date. You're paying.
"Always am," Sabrina whispered, chuckling to herself as she grabbed a bowl and scooped out some lukewarm noodles.
Alone, yes. Tired, absolutely.
But at least tomorrow, she'd try harder.
Sabrina had just wrangled the perfect noodle swirl onto her chopsticks—an art form she'd perfected after years of culinary combat—when her phone exploded with a loud sound, making her jolt like she'd just been caught stealing cookies in a haunted bakery.
The noodles did a dramatic backflip off the chopsticks and splashed back into the bowl with a sad plop.
"Of course," she muttered, wiping a stray droplet of soy sauce off her cheek like it had personally betrayed her. "Heaven forbid I get one bite in peace."
The phone vibrated again, dancing across the table like it had a gig at a local talent show. She grabbed it before it launched itself onto the floor and glanced at the screen.
Unknown Number.
She frowned. Spam? Debt collector? Another fake cruise vacation prize?
Her thumb hovered over the decline button, but something in her gut twisted. The kind of twist she got when she just knew the chicken stock was about to boil over.
With a sigh and zero emotional preparation, she slid her thumb across the screen and answered, "Hello?"
There was static. Then a pause.
Then a man's voice—deep, smooth, and far too familiar—crackled through the speaker like a bad memory she hadn't ordered off the menu.
"Sabrina?"
Her entire body went still. The noodle-laden chopsticks drooped in her hand like they'd given up on life.
No. No freaking way.
She blinked at the wall, lips parting. The voice on the other end repeated her name, this time softer.
It couldn't be. But it was.
Thaddeus Gillcrest.
Of all the nights.
Of all the noodles.
And apparently, he had to call from a random number she didn't recognize.
Sabrina stayed frozen, phone glued to her ear, half-sitting and half-processing the absurdity of the moment. She blinked at her noodles, as if they'd somehow explain why the man who ghosted her post-marriage was suddenly buzzing into her dinner like an unwanted sequel.
On the other end, Thaddeus didn't seem to care about the dramatic pause.
"Get ready. I'm coming to pick you up," he said, just like that. No hello, no pleasantries. Like this was a regular Tuesday night thing and not a bizarre twist in her pathetic life.
She scrunched her face. "...Huh?"
"I said get ready," he repeated, tone completely unbothered. "You've got ten minutes."
Sabrina blinked hard. " I-I just got off a ten-hour workday. My hair smells like sesame oil. What the hell do you mean, get ready? Ready for what?"
A beat of silence. Then, there was the faint sound of him exhaling like he was already regretting this conversation. "Something came up. I'll explain on the way."
She narrowed her eyes at the fridge like it held answers. "That's not how normal people invite someone anywhere. You can't just—summon me."
"I'm not summoning you. I'm informing you," he said coolly. "Big difference."
"I'm in pajamas. I was literally one second away from stress-eating my weight in noodles."
"I don't care what you're wearing. Just be outside when I get there."
"You can't just show up out of nowhere like some… overpriced Uber with commitment issues!"
There was a pause. She could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "Is that a no?"
Sabrina opened her mouth. Closed it. Rubbed her temple.
"What is this even about?" she asked, her voice a little lower. "If this is some weird rich-guy guilt thing or you suddenly wanting to talk about our mess, I'm really not up for it."
"It's not coffee," he replied. "And definitely not a date, if that's what you're panicking about."
Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
"Relax," he said, deadpan. "I just need you there. That's it."
She looked back at her noodles, wondering if she'd accidentally stepped into some weird dream. Since when did husbands, barely-there ones at that, call out of nowhere and expect her to follow along like they were still acting like a real couple?
"You've got five minutes left," Thaddeus added. "And I don't wait."
The line clicked dead.
Sabrina lowered the phone slowly, looking like she'd just been slapped by karma wrapped in a suit.
She stared out the window, then down at her pajama pants with the faded cartoon dumplings, and then back at the noodles.
"Unbelievable," she muttered. "Absolutely unhinged."
And yet… she was already standing up.
Sabrina shuffled into the bathroom like a zombie freshly risen from the grave, muttering under her breath as she grabbed a towel and splashed cold water on her face. No time for a shower. Not even time to properly argue with herself. Just a speed-run wash-up, a dab of toothpaste to kill the garlic breath from lunch, and a quick swipe of deodorant like it was perfume.
Her reflection stared back at her—messy bun, puffy eyes, and an expression that screamed What is my life.
Then she marched into the bedroom, came to a dead stop in front of her sad excuse for a wardrobe, and just stood there.
Blank stare. Wide eyes. Mild panic.
The closet door creaked like it knew it had nothing exciting to offer. Inside: a handful of work blouses, jeans, a hoodie that definitely smelled like ramen seasoning, and exactly two dresses—one from a friend's wedding, and one she bought during a temporary delusion that she'd start dating again.
Her hand hovered over the second dress.
"Wait. Is this even a date?" she muttered, staring into the hangers like they held the answer. "He didn't say it was. He just said, 'I need you there.' That could mean anything. Knowing him, it could be a business dinner or a secret alien summit."
Her eyes bounced from the dress to her black slacks, then to a plain tee.
Too casual? Too serious? Too much like she cared?
She growled at her closet like it had offended her.
"What am I even supposed to wear for a surprise billionaire pick-up? A trench coat and a strong face?"
She snatched a fitted black top and the nicest pair of jeans she owned—clean, no holes, and only slightly faded—and tossed them onto the bed. Neutral, safe, presentable, but not screaming, I got ready for you.
Then she glanced at her sneakers, considered heels, and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, no. If I'm getting dragged into something weird, I'm doing it with comfortable feet."
As she pulled the shirt over her head and yanked her hair into a tighter bun, she sighed.
"Watch this man take me to a fundraiser full of people in tuxedos while I look like I'm picking up takeout."
She paused by the mirror, gave herself a once-over, then pointed at her reflection.
"This better not be some nonsense."
But deep down, she already knew—of course it was.