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  Elena throws off her shoes the moment she enters the apartment.

  She’s aware of my need for tidiness. Either she deliberately ignores it, or she genuinely keeps forgetting about it. Both options are plausible.

  She roams inside the living room as though she had never set foot in here before. Opens the drawers, touches the plants, fumbles with my unread letters. “Shouldn’t you take care of that?”

  I sigh. Grab her shoes and put them in the right place. She watches me without an ounce of remorse. No need to answer that question of hers. Instead, I relocate the subject to a more pressing matter. “Italian?”

  Elena is a simple creature. Whenever food’s involved, she’d drop even the most interesting activity she might be invested in. Her head bends to the side, like a curious pup. “Bolognese?”

  “Alright.”

  While I gather the ingredients, she works on the tablet by the window, scrolling through my different playlists. A soft, pop melody comes out of the speaker, filling the silence. Once I turn around to chop the onions, she’s crossing her arms at the kitchen’s threshold.

  “Should we discuss the elephant in the room?” Her face transforms into the usual mischievous smile she employs when she’s possessed by the need to be nosy.

  I snort, shaking my head. “Your poor taste in music?”

  Her slap on my arm almost makes me drop the knife on my own feet. “No! What I’ve barged in on at the university.”

  Of course. This had to involve Andrew. “No one. Just another professor.”

  “It looked like a heated conversation…”

  I miss cutting off my finger. “You never should have seen that.”

  She coughs. Now that the words are out, they do sound weird. “What was even that?”

  “Nothing important,” I deflect, kneeling to reach for a pan. She pops her head into my line of sight. I contemplate throwing it to her face, but then I would have to dispose of the body and explain to our parents how she disappeared, probably would get caught anyway, and be left to rot in prison… The pan rolls under my palm and finishes its course onto the stove. “He came to offer his help.”

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  “His help?” she repeats, brows furrowed. “For what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to accept it.”

  By the way she laughs, there’s no doubt she hesitates sharing her true opinion. For a moment, only the chopped onions sizzling inside the pan are to be heard, along with our breath and the music. Our eyes, though, do meet a few times. And her expression soon becomes unbearable. “What is it?” I finally ask.

  “Do you speak to others?” She interrupts, jumping on the long-awaited occasion.

  “Others? Yes, I do have to entertain discussions sometimes, you know I am a teacher, Elena.”

  I glance at her just in time to witness the roll of her eyes. “I meant, to the professors.”

  “Now and then,” I admit, opening the can of tomato sauce. “When it’s necessary.”

  She walks inside the kitchen, following the edges of the counter with the tip of her index finger. “Funny…”

  “Mind sharing with the crowd?” I demand, not without some impatience in my tone. She notices it. As she deliberately evades my gaze now, I realize I didn’t ask something important before. “Were you only at the Arts and Sciences building to see me, ségra?”

  She fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “I might have… introduced myself to your colleagues…”

  Maybe she would have expected anger, considering how hesitant she was, but I’m rather surprised. “You have way too much free time on your hands. What is this schedule of yours?”

  “They barely knew who you were, Alex.”

  “Depends on who you spoke to, I definitely do not know all the professors of the different departments, Elena—”

  “I know who I’ve mentioned you to. I’m not stupid.”

  The hurt coating her words halts the ones on the verge of coming out of my mouth. Before I fully invest myself in this interrogation, I turn off the stove and face my sister. “Why is this even a big deal?”

  “Does Dad know?”

  “Do we have to bring our father into conversations that concern me?” I answer harshly. Her head’s low, her eyes fixated on the ground. Her fingers are now scratching the wood on the counter, and I think it best to take her hands in mine before she does something irreparable. “I’m the oldest here. You don’t have to take care of me, ségra.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Then what? You’re upset I didn’t talk about my little sister to my colleagues? They are not my buddies. I don’t speak of my private life to any of them.”

  I don’t see the point of doing that. Would they benefit from having this information? This would only complicate things. They would know me better. But it doesn’t help me with my goal.

  She squeezes my hands in return, with a soft, sad smile on her face. “That’s just a shame, Alex. You might not want that professor’s help for reasons you won’t share, but you can’t convince me not a single one of them doesn’t have your best interest in mind.”

  How can a twenty-year-old call me out so nonchalantly? “Alright, enough. Let’s just eat. Talk to me about your first days, instead.”

  Her reluctance to drop the subject shows, but she seems to understand my request. Only a few heartbeats pass before she speaks again. “Sometimes you have to manifest your own chances.”

  I huff at her need to have the last word. When we eventually focus on dinner in complete silence, questions arise in my own mind. Questions I have to ask a certain someone.