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.

not because we hate one another, because hate is an actual emotion you would need to have toward another person. No, we’re indifferent to one another, which I sometimes think is worse.

I inhale the pine-fresh air that’s supposedly good for my mental health, but I’m not any calmer on the exhale. Probably because something like three hundred people a year die in state parks. What can I say? I’m an almost-thirty-year-old white woman who lives alone. I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.

If I’d known park rangers were this hot, maybe I would’ve gone camping years ago.

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

Also, no matter how much my parents deny it, they each have a favorite. All parents do. They might love their children equally, but there’s always one kid they prefer spending time with.

Eliana has always had an irrational fear of flying. If you ask me, I think she has an irrational fear of any situation where she can’t be in complete control.

Who knows what they say about me. Probably something like how I’m the Finch sister who never met her potential and whose anxiety coping mechanisms are crying in the bathroom or collapsing in on herself like a dying star.

Eliana steps around Mom—the smile still locked into place, but that’s probably due to the Botox, not affection

my parents are the type of people who, once they choose you, they choose you for life. They’re kind of like dogs in that way.

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

press my lips together, to hold back whatever inappropriate remark is bound to pop out of my mouth. Because I joke when I’m uncomfortable, and Eliana unloading something personal onto my shoulders makes me itchy.

as a woman who lives alone in a city—I’m appropriately concerned about getting murdered in my sleep.

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.

No one in their right mind should want my anxiety- and allergy-ridden DNA, not to mention my poor eyesight.

I’ve tried, desperately, to be an adult. Self-sufficient and successful, despite the anxiety that’s weighed me down since its first flares in my early childhood.

But maybe . . . maybe I do want that, the tiniest bit. Someone to treat me differently. Like an adult. Like someone they want to spend time around, rather than just tolerate.

Anxiety is congestion of the soul, and spending time outdoors might be the medicine you need right now.

I’m thankful dogs exist. Because a woman wandering alone could, possibly, catch someone’s attention. A woman walking her dog, however, is perfectly ordinary.

When I began therapy, I remember my therapist saying that anxiety isn’t inherently bad. In fact, I can thank anxiety for keeping my ancestors alive. That hypervigilance is what saved them from being eaten by tigers or whatever. But today, we don’t live in a constant state of danger; we don’t need to constantly tap into our fight or flight. Not like our ancestors did, at least.

I shouldn’t talk to strangers, especially those in authority positions. I’m a nervous talker, and mark my words, it will be my downfall.

I have to keep it together this weekend. Once I get home, then I can have my breakdown. The thought makes me feel better. It’s nice to have things to look forward to.

I don’t like change, and I’m pretty sure it has a bad rap for a reason.

There’s a reason that detectives in cop shows are super hot—it’s so the criminals are disarmed into spilling all their dirty, murderous secrets.

I’m not sure how old I’ll need to be to finally become an adult, in control of my life.

I’d like to think I’ve learned to spot the difference between a good man and a bad one,

According to my therapist, I subconsciously gravitate toward shitty guys because I don’t view myself worthy of unconditional love or something. Not depressing at all.

The way my body flushed warm and my vision went blurry and orange, how my hearing fuzzed like static. The first time it happened, I thought I was having a panic attack; they’re so similar, at the start. Fainting is better because you get to be unconscious, whereas panic attacks are ten to thirty minutes of torture.

Fuck being polite and kind and nice to men who don’t deserve it.

wonder what that must feel like. Not the moving a dead body part but finding that person. Your person. I’ve never been close.

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.

I’m the girl who waits to be kissed, who frets over every single decision in a relationship, who is often told she’s too much or, more commonly, not enough.

I know that everyone deserves a job that doesn’t make them miserable.

Something about the trees, the fresh air . . . it really helps you connect with yourself.

maybe this experience will help me break out of my dating-comfort shell. Not all men are terrible. Most men, sure, but not all.

“But the fact that I don’t let things bother me . . . Remi, that’s intentional. It takes work. Part of it is my personality, sure, but I’m confident in who I am, the direction my life is headed in. When you feel good about those things, I don’t know, it’s easier to not sweat the small stuff.”

Maybe I’ve been miserable because my life has been the culmination of too many panicked, anxiety-driven choices that were always the safe bet.

The older I’ve gotten, the easier it’s become for me to realize that my parents are just . . . people.

I’m a ball of anxiety disguised as a functional human being.

Am I surprised? No. But I’m mad. Mad that I was foolish enough to believe for one single moment that things might be okay. I should know better by now. In the grand scheme of my life, things rarely go my way.

I wonder if I’ll ever find another person whose touch can calm me down as much as his.

“That’s your phone? The background photo is a close-up of someone’s tits.” “Yes, mine,” Aunt Lindy says, her eyes widened with confusion. “From when I was younger. It’s always nice, to remember how good you once looked! Before, you know, gravity.”

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

some men only view you as a plaything.