I don’t respond. Normally I tell my sister everything, but I don’t feel like telling her about my one-night stand.

“Did I tell you I love that color on you? It suits you.”

I look down, taking in my pink tank top and black shorts. I turn to face her, raising my eyebrows in question. Reaching out, she locks a small strand of my hair and twirls it around her finger. “Your hair. You look beautiful as a brunette.” She gives me a soft smile before letting my hair drop back against my chin. Turning her head away from me she focuses her attention back on my room.

I hate saying that. My room. It doesn’t feel like my room. It feels more like a prison.

“Are you going to unpack?” It’s been eight days since I moved in.

“Soon.” I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack every box, making my stay here permanent.

She nods in agreement, frowning at the boxes stacked on top of one another. Genna is a neat freak, so I doubt she’s fond of my decorating style.

“We can paint it if you'd like.” She gestures toward the beige walls, still not looking at me.

Beige. It’s such a mundane color. This is the only room in their three-bedroom house that is lacking in color. The rest of the house is filled with vibrant colors, making the rooms feel full of life. Maybe that’s why she gave this one to me?

“It's fine,” I reply, looking around at the walls.

Genna sighs softly, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. I know she knows that it’s not fine. We’re women. Women don’t use the word fine literally.

“Genna, thank you.” I feel as if I should say more, so I add, “For everything.” For some reason, I think I should also say some words of encouragement to take that sad look off her face, but nothing more comes.

She leans her head on my shoulder as she takes my right hand into hers, lacing our fingers together. “Dre, whatever you need, or want, just tell me. I want you to be comfortable here. Don't feel like you can't make any changes. This is your room and your home, despite what you say or think. Jason and I want you to be comfortable. You can decorate this room, paint it, or do whatever you want. We just want you to be happy.”

I don't respond. I don't have the heart to tell her that I’m trying. I’m trying to be happy, but I don’t know how. Not anymore.

Genna has the most positive outlook on life, and sometimes I think her heart is truly made of gold. She’s seven years older than me and has always been my protector. My parents tried to have a baby for four years before they looked into adoption. It was almost two years to the date when the agency called, saying they had a newborn baby girl for them, in China. My parents wanted a fast, smooth adoption, and the agency told them China would give them that. It was more expensive, but money was no object when it came to them wanting a baby.

After they’d gotten the news, they’d hopped on a flight and returned three weeks later with Genna. My parents had thought their dreams of being a family were complete until the day my mom found out she was pregnant with me. To this day, my parents call me their miracle baby.

Despite not being blood related, Genna is my big sister in every way. We don’t need to have the same blood to be family, which is why we have matching tattoos on our feet. Sisters by Chance, Friends by Choice.

“Come on.” She stands up from the bed, gesturing for me to follow. “It’s time to get dinner started. You can help chop veggies.”

Standing, I follow her downstairs to the kitchen. She’s a fantastic cook. I don’t know why she didn’t go to culinary school to become a chef, rather than a substitute teacher. Genna is the perfect wife. She spends her free time volunteering or baking.

Opening the fridge, I grab a bottle of water and the carrots, celery, bell peppers, and cucumbers that are sitting in the bottom drawer.

“What are you cooking?” I ask, making my way over to the center island.

“Oh, just trying out this new chicken recipe I found.” She gives me a warm smile before stuffing her nose into her recipe book. “What time do you need to be at the hospital tomorrow?”

Hospital. I’m starting to hate that word.

“Noon. The procedure is at one.”

I have to get my chemo port put back in to restart my therapy.

Chemo sucks. The movies only show you a small fraction of what really happens. It’s three, sometime four, hours of sitting in a chair, hooked up to a machine in order to receive the drugs you need. It’s a feeling of being vulnerable … helpless. A sense of losing all control. It’s a feeling of handing over your faith and hope to someone other than God, giving your trust to your doctors and the drugs that are being pumped into your veins.

With my past treatment, the fatigue was the hardest for me to handle. I was always too tired to hang out with my friends, sit down for dinner with my parents, or enjoy a conversation with someone without wanting to fall asleep. I’m not looking forward to that this time around.

“Sounds good. Chemotherapy starts on Wednesday then?”

“Yeah.”

We continue preparing the food in silence. Her stuffing chickens, me chopping vegetables.

I’m sitting at the counter looking through the most recent celebrity gossip magazine while dinner cooks, when Jason comes back from his bike ride.

“Hello, ladies. It smells good in here.”

It does smell good. A mixture of lemon, butter, and spices.

Jason bends to give Genna a quick kiss on the cheek. When he stands tall, he looks at me. “Did you help?” he asks with a hint of amusement in his voice. He knows I can’t cook for shit.