This is not the birthday weekend I had planned for myself. Alex and I have become creatures of (moderate) habit: on Friday nights, I generally go to his apartment in Cow Hollow directly from work. Sometimes Caitlin cruises by the store just before closing (6pm on Fridays) and we go have a drink for an hour, but more often than not I’m walking to the Downtown Berkeley BART station to grab a train to the Embarcadero, then hop on a bus to Alex’s place. It can take me about an hour and half to get there, so I tend to put on a podcast (I’ve been listening to the History of Byzantium podcast for over a year now and I’m still catching up) and zone out. Sometimes he beats me home (I think of it as “home,” even though it’s not where I live six days out of seven), and sometimes I’m letting myself in.

We might go out to dinner, but usually he is “too tired to think about being pleasant in public for another minute” so it’s Thai food from Grubhub or I’ll dig around in the cupboards to try to throw something together. One thing I learned from living on my own for the past couple of years is how to cobble together something more than just edible by keeping good staples in the pantry, but Alex stocks his kitchen like a bachelor. Before she walked out on Alex, Minty never taught him how to cook even the most basic dishes (“I burn water,” he once told me), and while his mother and sister are truly lovely people, their artistic talents are in clay and paint, not dinner. Once when Julian and I were visiting Alex in his family’s musty old home, Fennella tried to cook a roast dinner and refused any help in the kitchen. Having incinerated the joint of beef, she served up some very sad and overboiled parsnips and a sauce that was less béchamel and more runny Play-Doh. I am fairly convinced that Fenn and Cora (Alex and Fenn’s mother) live on raw broccoli, Walker’s crisps (salt and vinegar) and gin.

Saturday mornings I’m up before 7am for what Alex calls a “fix and fuss” session — fixing tea and doing a general tidy up of the apartment, throwing discarded socks in the hamper, wiping down counters and using the dustbuster to suck up all the little hairs that men seem to forever be shedding from their shaving or plucking from ears or noses or wherever. (Honestly, this is one of the things I miss least about living with a man, and yet I feel I have to do it even though it isn’t technically my home.) Without fail, Alex is up by 9am to FaceTime with Lucy — while he was absolutely hopeless about timeliness when we were younger, there are two things now he won’t be late for: work and his weekly time with Lucy. Even though Minty and I have no hard feelings — after all, I played no role in their breakup, and we mended fences long before she left Alex — I try to stay out of Lucy’s view. Since she’s only just about to turn six, the calls are often pretty quick, and certainly never enough for Al. I leave him alone for a while after they’re done. It’s not my place to insert myself.

But this isn’t a minute-by-minute playbook of our weekends, that’s not what I intended to write. Enough to know that Alex has his soccer league practice (“real football, Mel, with strong Scottish men who don’t need armor”) on Saturday afternoons, and I’m back in Berkeley at work for a shift by 12:30pm. Alex usually stomps in (yes, he is still the Stomper some 14 years later) just before closing time, hopefully showered. We’ll Uber back to my place via the Berkeley Bowl (I’m still going there, despite the recent measles scare because I’m vaccinated unlike some people) to pick up stuff for dinner. As I said, habit. For both of us, habit and routine in unfamiliar cities (and an unfamiliar country for Alex) give us the kind of structure and predictability we’d been lacking for so long in our old lives in London and Pasadena.

So yes, not a playbook. What I mean to write about is what happened Saturday morning while Alex was FaceTiming with Lucy. I was loading the dishwasher when my phone started pinging with text message notifications. I counted five in a row, then my phone started vibrating on the kitchen countertop.

Rachel.

She hung up before I could even pick up the phone, so I read the messages. In order:

“LOSER WHERE ARE YOUUUUUUUU”

“IT’S IMPORTANT”

“WTF LOSER”

“CALL ME” (with 10 cry-laughing emojis)

“WHAT’S YOUR GARDENER’S NAME”

The last of these was very confusing to me, and receiving five messages in a row is distinctly not my sister Rachel’s style. Most often the texts I get from her are ones she means to send to one of her clients instead, and while they are sometimes in all caps, only ones that include the word “LOSER” are definitely meant for me.

I called her back, running through potential scenarios as I waited for the phone to connect: Mom was sick, Dad was sick, Grandma died, or she can’t remember how much a parking ticket in Beverly Hills costs if she parks next to a red curb. On the sixth ring, she picked up.

“Bissssshhhhhh, where are you?” she said.

“In San Francisco, with Alex. What’s wrong?” Alex caught my eye from the other side of the room and mouthed “is everything okay” at me. I shrugged in response. I could hear Lucy’s little voice prattling on about how much she hateshateshates a certain girl in her primary school class and wants her to “drop dead” and thought, even in the middle of my mild panic, that she is definitely her father’s daughter.

“Well, I am looking at your apartment, studio, hut, whatever and you are NOT here.”

In none of the scenarios I considered had I imagined Rachel peeking in my windows, and while this was infinitely better than family dying, it was far more perplexing. I decided last Thanksgiving that I was sick of flying back and forth to the Bay Area from Burbank while Alex and I tried to figure out if we even wanted to be in a committed relationship with each other after all the mess we’d created. There was no way I could afford to live in SF on my own without draining my spousal support, nor was Alex ready to have me move in with him. When I made vague noises about possibly getting more support from Julian to offset the increased rent, Julian shut that down immediately and threw around words like “bad faith” and “that traitor, you’re never getting any rent from me to go live near him” so it was a non-starter.

I had always liked the vibe in Berkeley, and at one point, before Julian and I married, I considered doing postgrad work there. It’s not like it’s exactly cheap here, but my landlord, Steve, is a law school buddy of my dad’s, and he gave me a great deal on rent. Berkeley is also far enough away from Alex that Julian is more forthcoming with support. While that may sound cynical, it’s also true. Caitlin says it’s just another way Julian is still controlling me “from beyond the grave of your marriage, Mel” but does she really expect me not to take the money, even with strings attached? I’m just being realistic.

Rachel? She hates Berkeley and can’t figure out why I would ever want to live here when there’s “almost, like, a real city on the other side of the bridge.” It’s too boring and rainy and full of students. (“Like having to live in Westwood and being surrounded by UCLA people but they’re all a lot uglier and the weather sucks.”) So beyond the logistics of how she even got into Steve’s backyard, there was the why she was even there in the first place.

“Rachel, is everything all right?” I had finished loading the dishwasher by this point and was shoving my feet in my Keds as I held the phone in the crook of my neck. Alex had ended his FaceTime with Lucy, and was now standing next to me, trying to listen in. “Put her on speakerphone,” he whispered.

“Yeah, I guess. Guess what? I’m in Berkeley, bitch! Get your fat ass over here, I’m bored and it’s fucking cold. Can you give me the key code to your hut so I can warm up?”

“How are you even outside of my studio? How did you even get through the garden gate?” Rachel may spend plenty of time at the gym working out, but climbing walls is not her speed.

“Oh, your gardener let me in. He’s really nice — he was digging in the front garden and I asked him if Melissa lived here, and he said yes, so I explained I was your sister visiting from LA and then we started talking about Dad which I thought was really weird but he was totally down with letting me in the backyard. He’s making me a chai latte now and it made me think I really need to get my gardener to start making me chai lattes.”

I have known Rachel every day of my 34 years and she still amazes me.

“That’s not my gardener. That’s Steve, my landlord. Dad’s friend from law school?” Alex was now bent over laughing. I shot him a “not funny” scowl which made him laugh even more.

“Oh wow, that explains a lot. Anyway, I am here. Am I on speakerphone? Is Alex there? Hiiiiiiiiii, Alex,” she purred. Rachel has had the low key hots for Alex since I showed her pictures of him on Facebook back in 2007. She was classy enough to try to seduce him at my wedding to Julian, which she said was her “due” since she was the maid of honor and he was the best man. Luckily Alex was far too drunk by the time she followed him into his hotel room for anything to happen because that is a past I would not want to have to deal with.

“Hi, Rachel,” he said in reply. “Does this mean I’ll have the pleasure of your company tonight? As always, I would be delighted to be around another of the beautiful de Mornay sisters.” As much as I know his flirting with Rachel is an act, it stings. Rachel has never wanted for male attention, never worried if she was smart enough or funny enough or pretty enough, because she either was enough as she was, or her looks were enough to compensate for shortcomings in other departments. Rachel is blonder than me and I’ve never seen her have a bad hair day, even when she was 12. Her lips are plumper (she swears she doesn’t get injections, which I mostly believe, but she’s 36 now, so who knows), she’s a natural hourglass shape, rarely diets and can drink a man under a table. I love her completely and wish she would just go away.

“Wellllll, that’s up to Mel,” Rachel said “Mel? You can bring him too, I’m sure I can find things for us to do.”

“Rachel, why are you here?” I wanted to cut this line of conversation off. “I just texted you the code to the studio. Let yourself in.”

“I’ve got business in San Francisco on Monday morning. I know, I know, I usually stay at the St. Regis but I thought we could have a little… sister time tonight and I’ll leave you alone tomorrow. I promise.”

This was all highly suspicious. Rachel knows what the arrangements are in my studio, and she was thoroughly unimpressed with the little sleeping nook last time she even bothered to come to Berkeley, rather than summoning me to the St. Regis. I could hear her key in the guest code and walk through the door.

“Ooooh, thank you Steve,” I heard her say. “Steve’s here with my latte! Best landlord everrrrr,” she said. “Hmmmm, Mel, looks like your usual level of clean and organized in here. Bye, Steve! I’ll have Melissa bring you the cup back.” I heard the door click behind him as he left Rachel alone in my home.

“Rachel, I’m on my way. I’ll get an Uber and be there in about 40 minutes. You can turn the heat on if you’re cold and there’s homemade focaccia in the bread box if you want some.” Alex was throwing my overnight bag together for me as I shoved my arms into my jacket and tied my scarf around my neck.

“Fabulous. Get over here, loser. I’m bored.” Then she hung up on me.

Alex leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Your sister,” he laughed, “is fucking amazing.”

I growl-screamed in frustration. “Yeah, that’s one word for it. I don’t know what she’s up to but if she’s staying over it’s not going to be anything… normal. And I still have my shift!” I threw up my hands in disgust.

Alex patted my head lightly. “I’ve ordered you an Uber. Call me when you’re done at the shop and we’ll make plans for later. Or maybe I’ll just stay home. Go be with Rachel. If she’s here, she needs you.”

*****

I could feel the heat in my studio slipping out from under the door as I punched in my keycode. Apparently, when I told Rachel she could turn on the heat she took that to mean “thermonuclear meltdown” instead of 68. I passed over the threshold to discover she’d figured out how to use my shower (which can be a little temperamental), as evidenced by the three (how?) soaking wet towels discarded in the middle of the living area. She’d also pulled down my Murphy bed and burrowed her way into it, as evidenced by the large lump under my duvet cover (Portuguese linen, an apology purchase from Julian from the time he had to spend an extra week in Miami). The bread box was on the floor next to her, and there was no sign of any of the focaccia. The contents of two oversize Prada suitcases now formed a trail from my front door to the sleeping nook. How she’d managed to do all of this in 40 minutes was beyond me.

I walked over and whispered, “Rachel, it’s Mel. I’m here.” I sat down gingerly next to her, and rubbed what I took to be her back through the duvet. She moved a little and at least I knew she was alive. One lithe arm — clearly that Pilates was paying off for her in ways it never did for me — unfurled above the hem of the duvet cover.

“Mmmmmmm. I take back everything I said about your shitty mattress. This is heaven,” I heard her say, muffled through the bedclothes.

“Are you going to get up now, Rach? I don’t really have a lot of time — I have to be at work at 12:30 — so if you want to talk about something in particular –“

Her head shot out from under the covers. “I’m jetlagged. Can I just sleep here now and I’ll come find you later? By the way, you look like ass, girl.” She looked disgustingly well-rested, with perfectly sculpted eyebrows, which frankly probably have had microblading because I can’t remember them being quite as defined, and a poreless complexion. Even without makeup, Rachel glowed like an Edison bulb. I, on the other hand, knew I looked a little grey after too little sleep. Alex and I had been up late talking about Minty’s brand new plans to move back to London so that Lucy could have a “proper education” (read: not enough posh children in the village school), and what that would mean for his child support obligations. Between living in SF and supporting Lucy, Minty, Fenn and Cora, there’s not been much to put aside for our future, even with his generous salary.

I considered her question. “Rachel, how can you be jetlagged flying in from Burbank?”

“GOD, Melissa, what makes you think I flew in from Burbank? I got here from Paris. When I told Matt I was going to see you in Berkeley, he said it was like travelling from the sublime to the ridiculous.” She pushed the covers down a little more and I noticed she was wearing one of my cashmere sweaters as a pajama top. I couldn’t think what was on the bottom, if anything.

Things had changed a lot for Rachel since Julian and I had gotten married and divorced. After she barely squeaked out a Bachelor’s degree, she spent four or five years drifting — she tended bar at Timmy Nolan’s for a long time, lived at home with our parents in her old room, tried to write a screenplay, and supported her taste for luxury by dating wealthy older men she met at Timmy Nolan’s. One of these connections finally paid off for her when her then-current boyfriend (I think he was about 50, and she was about 28) thought she might have the skills to be a fairly decent talent agent and set her up as a junior agent at his firm. She’s pushy and charming, and when she really wants something she can’t have easily, she won’t let go. The communications degree she managed to eke out was also useful, as it turned out, and she’s a natural networker. She shocked us all by being actually pretty fantastic at it, and she’s been working her way up for the past eight years. She’s got a focus on emerging talent, especially young women, and she’s launching a couple of careers of people you might be hearing about very soon. I’m really proud of her, because I was so worried about her for so long.

So being in Paris wasn’t necessarily a shock to hear, but hearing about Matt and Paris was. “I… aren’t you two over?” She had dumped Matt, her sort-of boyfriend (you could never tell who was a boyfriend and who was just a “special friend” with Rachel), about eight months ago after he made the mistake of asking her to move in with him. He was, like most of the fools who panted after her, hopelessly in love with her and blind to the fact that she didn’t have a monogamous bone in her body.

“Ugh, Mel, don’t you ever look at my Instagram? He moved in with me in March. I posted about it. You can totally see his bike in the background of one of the pictures I posted of me doing yoga.” Rachel’s Instagram is all red carpet poses, Runyon Canyon runs, yoga and juicing — basically my old life, just with celebrities and premieres. And although I am so much better off not being married to Julian, I won’t lie and say I don’t miss some of the trappings of my former life.

“Matt moved in? Like, into your house?”

“No dum-dum, he moved into my garage. What do you think I mean? Anyway, he’s in Cannes right now, putting together some deal that sounds too fucking boring.” Matt produces serious documentaries about the environment, and the substance of his relationship with my sister is like this unknowable and unopenable black box — Jenn is particularly intrigued by what their pillow talk must be like (“can’t imagine Rachel getting turned on by talk about rising sea levels”). “His lease was up, and when he asked me again to live with him, I thought, well, why not? I can always ask him to leave, and he’s pretty fun in bed. Anyway, let me sleep, flying commercial is the worst.” She flipped the duvet back over her head.

Clearly the conversation was over for the morning, so I wrote out detailed instructions on how to get to the store, as well as a map of where she could find coffee and lunch in the surrounding few blocks, and decided to walk the two miles to work to eat up some of the extra time I now had until my shift.

Somehow it’s after midnight here and I’m not even done with this ridiculousness. I’ll add more tomorrow night.