Drop Dead Sisters (The Finch Sisters, #1)

by Amelia Diane Coombs

If you have an older sister, there’s a good chance that she’s almost killed you at least once since childhood.

Shit happened and you didn’t die. Best of luck with your trauma and therapy bills.

Hot Californian sun sizzles against my pale indoor-person skin.

When I’m around my family, it’s like I can’t escape the worst parts of myself.

The worst kind of small talk is with family, the people you should be able to connect with.

I’d much rather live in regret of not having a kid than regret bringing one into the world.

My entire life, I’ve been the dramatic kid, and not in a fun, theater-camp way like Maeve. My knee-jerk instinct as an adult is to not voice my discomfort, to not tell anyone. To not cause waves, after a childhood of rocking the calm seas that my parents tried to cultivate.

Not like serial killer status or Chris Pratt levels of bad (he gave up his incontinent fifteen-year-old cat for adoption because she was too much trouble, which is the purest form of evil in my book).

As women, we have so little say in our lives. At the very least we should be able to say who can and can’t put their hands on us, touch us.

Society encourages women not to trust one another, but men? Men will always cover for each other.