I’ll edit with notes tomorrow.
Cara snorts into her coffee, spilling some over the rim of the cup, and glares at her brother across the table. “Shut up, that's not the point.”
“What’s the point then?” Kris’ hair is falling in his eyes again; he brushes it back from his forehead with the back of a hand.
“They're Canadian,” she says, giving her coffee a considering look before setting it back down on the table with a loud clunk, kicking Kris’ shin for good measure.
He doesn't say anything, but there's no hiding his wince. His silence is annoying. Cara knows he's doing it on purpose, but it doesn't lose any of its effectiveness.
“We should go,” she says, finally, and picks up the mug of coffee again. It's still terrible.
“Home?” Kris asks, quirking an eyebrow. His plate is empty and the waiter who's been lingering on the edges of the room slips in to carry it away. Cara rolls her eyes, not at the waiter who's doing his job, but at the idea of home.
“Home is where the heart is?” she says, raising her tone with the sentiment at the end of the phrase, skeptical. There have been too many hotel rooms, after all. Their eyes meet across the table, a moment that stretches out too long. A shared feeling of impermanence.
The silence is broken by a commotion near one of the dining room doors, a hung-over guest has walked into a chair. Kris sticks out his tongue, and the twist of nostalgia in Cara’s chest has her laughing instead of darker thoughts. Something buzzes on the table, both their phones in discordant unison.
“You win,” she says, and gets up from the table.
The darkness of the night sky over the Atlantic is exactly the same as over the Pacific; it's too easy to lose track of things like time and place. The meaning of life.
42, Cara thinks, an automatic reflex even though the person who always said that has been gone for years already. The script spread on the fold out tray in front of her has its interesting points but, not for the first time, she wishes she could debate the finer points of the plot with her grandfather.
Do you remember grand-père?
She hears a rustle and thud from the sleeping berth next door, before her phone buzzes.
Another message pops up before she has time to tap out a reply.
Go to sleep
Cara makes a face at the partition but tucks the script back in her bag and pulls the blanket over her arms anyway.
She's exhausted leaving the airport and even though their luggage was sent ahead, her latest bag feels like it's dragging rocks from her shoulder. Kris is emotionless behind sunglasses, fingers tightening around a plastic water bottle that he drains and leaves in the recycling as they step out of the sliding doors.
“Did mother—?” Cara begins, interrupted by the black car that slides up to the kerb. Kris is already disappearing into the shadowy interior, and the question is moot. She purses her lips in irritation anyway.
The driver doesn't ask where they're going of course, and Cara spends half the ride trying to figure out whether she should recognize him or he just happens to look like someone else, likely from some set she can barely half remember. The rest of the time, she watches the lights of the city scroll by. By the time they're rolling though the gates, there's breath tickling her arm and a warm head resting on her shoulder.
“Wake up, sleepyhead, we’re here,” she hums, poking her brother with the sunglasses she’d slipped off his face as soon as his listing in the car had slipped definitely over the edge into slumber.
“Ouch,” Kris grumbles, making a face and trying to bat the offending object away with clumsy fingers. Cara laughs, which only results in more grumbling, to little success.