A familiar, clawing shame raked its nails down her back and over her shoulders, leaving tension in its wake.

“Portia?” Her father sounded concerned. Of course he was. He’d been saddled with a ridiculous daughter who thought a swordmaking apprenticeship was a step in the right direction.

“Yeah. Of course. I’ll think about the position and let you know soon.”

“I suppose swords might be more lucrative than real estate.” Her father’s voice was jokey, but there was that edge of tension that reminded her how many times she’d told her parents she’d think about something in the past. For her, thinking about things often meant putting it off until she forgot what she’d even been asked to do.

“Dad, can you send some more info about the job? I’ll do some research. I . . . yeah, it sounds like something I could see myself doing.” She usually reserved her research for things that actually interested her, but she could do this for her parents.

“Of course, pumpkin.” The pleasure in his voice made her throat go rough. She didn’t want the job—she knew that—but would it be so bad? She could make her family happy. She’d get to see them more, and maybe they would actually be proud of her instead of feigning interest in whatever she was dabbling in at the moment.

That was nice in theory, but then she imagined the reality: going into the office every day and having her parents ask her to do important things while totally expecting her to screw them up. Walking on eggshells to make sure her ideas weren’t too outside the box, too silly, and throwing her own dreams, hazy as they were, out in order to please her parents. That hypothetical future—constantly being held up to what her parents thought she should be capable of, but also never being able to forget her own past mistakes—made her body tense and her stomach start to ache. Disappointing her family from a distance was bad enough. Did they really want her doing it on a daily basis?

“Great. I’ll keep an eye out for the email,” she said. “I have to go work, Dad. Love you!”

She disconnected the call, feeling suddenly exhausted even though she’d already acclimated to the New York City/Edinburgh time difference. Echoes of previous conversations with her parents bounced around in her head.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have let her have access to the trust until she was thirty,” her mother had said before she boarded her flight to Scotland. “Just look at everything Regina has done, and Portia is still flitting around like a butterfly.”

One of the downfalls of the whole “gestating in the same womb” thing, apart from the matching outfits throughout childhood, was that her parents had always seen Reggie as a handy measuring stick instead of a completely different human with different strengths. Reggie had always been the smart twin, the levelheaded twin, the one who could impress with her immense knowledge and humor and common sense. And then she’d gotten sick, and after that it had been even more pronounced. Portia’s B’s and C’s had been nice, but Reggie had maintained her A average despite. Portia’s latest internship was interesting, but had she seen that Reggie had made another thirty under thirty list, despite?

She knew the truth that lay beneath the despite, though no one had ever really said it aloud. She’d overheard her mother on the phone, voice gravelly with exhaustion as she sat in the hospital waiting room. “What if we lose her? Regina was the one with so much potential. No, that didn’t come out right . . .” Portia had thought the same thing. She’d thought it as Reggie lay in the pediatric ICU, hooked up to tube and machines, while Portia with her perfect health began to fuck up even more. She’d thought it when Reggie was graduating magna cum laude and she was a year behind after switching colleges twice. She’d been running from that thought for years, a trail of mistakes in her wake. She could hardly blame them for it.

Her phone vibrated. Reggie had messaged, as if summoned by Portia’s angst.

Reggie: Hey, I just read through the first post you sent. It’s great! People are going to love it! ?

Portia braced herself—her sister was kind, but not bubbly, and the exclamations/smiley face combo meant she was softening a blow. Had she hated the piece? She’d wanted to make Reggie proud . . .

Reggie: And

Reggie: I appreciate you trying to appeal to the geeks on the site

Reggie: Buuut

Portia: Oh no. What did I do wrong?

Reggie: What? You didn’t do anything WRONG. Geez.

Reggie: Just

Reggie: The character Banshee is Irish, not Scottish. I’m going to stick in a reference to Moira MacTaggert and mention that you felt like you were being banished to Muir island.

Portia: Have no idea where that is but sounds good.

Reggie: And a tardigrade is a microanimal. A TARDIS is the time and space travel machine from Doctor Who (Doctor, not Dr.–that’s his name, not his title), though the food at Cheryl’s “Doctor Hu’s” stand looks amazing. I might commission an additional piece on this for the Foodie section . . .

Portia: Thanks for catching those errors and saving me from being ripped apart in the comments, lol.

Reggie: No prob. You know I’m always here to ‘Well, actually’ you on these matters.

Portia: . . .

Reggie: Well, on any matter, I guess.

Portia: lol

Reggie: Speaking of, one of our contributors started a video channel. I just shared the latest video and thought of your whole “New Portia” thing. Maybe it would be helpful? Talk to ya later!