Five

Aaron had refused to come, so Angie sat by herself on American Airlines #1254, non-stop to Anchorage. He was tired of Shayla's bullshit, he'd said, and tired of the sister thing. She almost spat at him when he said that. As if a blood bond, years of devoted fighting, envy, shared prescriptions, wardrobe wars and reciprocal loans could be dismissed as a "thing."

If she were a betting woman (and Angie had a giddy feeling she might just be turning into one), she'd say this romance was on the rails. She'd miss the sex, and the cuddling and his way with eggs. But the minute she'd seen the corner of the printout from Travelocity peeking out from the stack of magazines on Shayla's table, she said the word "clue," she prepared to chase.

Ok so maybe wearing her missing sister's clothes might be called a 'thing.' The suitcase stuffed in the belly of this huge, noisy jet was a compromise--some of her more sensible jeans and shoes (she was going to Alaska, right?) folded together with Shayla's softer, brighter choices. Aaron would have laughed at her, but Aaron was history, despite his pathetic little back-tracking text message this morning: call me when you land. As if.


Angie had brought the wrong book. All she really knew about Alaska was Northern Exposure, that show she and Shayla used to watch together in high school, so she'd found "The Northern Exposure Book: The Official Publication of the Television Series" on Amazon. She was so dumb sometimes. The book was making her miserable, ridiculously short on details about Alaska and way long on chatty details about how the cast had loved each other. If Shayla was here, they could have gone on one of their long riffs together, bitching about how they were miscast in their own lives, dreaming up possible titles of the TV show that would finally showcase their unique talents. But she couldn't do it without her. No matter the lipstick and the witchy shit, the talking into the mirror. She was Angie. And it was cold up here in the clouds.