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“Do you wanna go shopping with me?” my sister asked, pressing her needle-thin thighs together and angling herself to emphasize a tiny bulge of fat. “Baby weight is killing my wardrobe.”

My sister, thirteen weeks pregnant, was poised to be the most insufferable mother in the history of mankind.

“Sure,” I said. I drove us both in my Honda Civic with the big dent in the front. My sister's lip only curled a bit. 

In the Old Navy racks (normally, my sister wouldn’t stoop so low, but their elastic waist pregnancy pants are to die for. and it’s not like she’s keeping them any longer than she has to) my sister asked me how you’re doing. Never told her that we ended, couldn't. My sister would lord that over me, tell my mother so they could do the lording together.

I had to think of a lie fast.

So now, she thinks you’re in Italy for a semester, working as an intern in some exclusive, expensive-sounding art museum I made up on the spot. I told her you’re staying right on the coast. How’s the weather there?

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