Mysitershotfriend Today

She’d ask about my summer reading. She taught me how to parallel park in our cul-de-sac. Once, she even defended me at dinner when my sister made fun of my “weird” taste in music. “Let him like what he likes,” Chloe said, winking. I nearly choked on a breadstick.

We all have that one summer we never quite forget. Mine has a face, a name, and an uncomfortable amount of borrowed lip gloss. mysitershotfriend

So here’s to the sister’s hot friend. You don’t end up with her. But you do end up learning how you want to be seen—and how you want to see others. She’d ask about my summer reading

Looking back, it wasn’t about Chloe being “hot.” It was about her treating me like a person, not just a kid. She showed up, she was kind, and she confused every teenage hormone I had into something almost tender. “Let him like what he likes,” Chloe said, winking

I was seventeen. Chloe was twenty, wore ripped band tees like they were couture, and laughed with her whole body. She also had this habit of making coffee in the morning while leaning against the counter in nothing but an oversized hoodie and socks. The kitchen became my personal obstacle course of trying not to stare.

Her name was Chloe. She was my older sister’s college roommate, and when their sublet fell through in June, my mom—bless her oblivious heart—said, “Of course she can stay in the guest room.” What my mom didn’t realize was that Chloe wasn’t just my sister’s friend . She was, in the most devastating, inconvenient way possible, *my sister’s hot friend.