“Me either. I think ’cause of my mom, movies became like a chore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, because we always had to… well, like, for example, what does your mom do for a living?”

Bette either hadn’t heard me or was pretending not to hear me, because she ignored the question, her eyes on the road. I was just about to ask again, when a car darted in front of us, cutting her off. She swore loudly and banged on the horn and it just didn’t seem to be the best moment for discussion.

And, truth be told, there are a lot of moments like that when you know Bette Porter.

When Bette buzzed Kit’s apartment, she had to do it like, thirty times before we finally got an answer. It was Kit’s voice, sounding a lot like I had probably sounded when Bette had woke me up this morning: “Yeah?”

“Kit?” Bette called. “It’s me.”

“Who’s ‘me’?”

She rolled her eyes. “Bette.” She let go of the button and waited for an answer, receiving none. She pressed the button again. “Your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister,” was Kit’s reply. Bette shifted her eyes toward me and smiled weakly.

“Kit, come on. I want to apologize.”

“You do, huh?”

“Kit.” She took her finger off the button for a moment and then tried again. “Kit, you said some ***** things, too, okay? Just let me up and we’ll call off the whole thing.”

“Baby sis, you made it pretty clear how you felt about me last night. You think I was so gone that I wouldn’t remember? I do. Now you come waking me up at six in the damn morning-”

“It’s seven!” Bette corrected cheerfully, but I doubted Kit heard her if she still had her finger on the intercom’s button. “You need to set your clock forward.”

“-saying you wanna apologize? That’s done. I just want some coffee and some aspirin and some peace and quiet.”

Bette sighed. “I have coffee for you.”

Kit’s reply was muted, exhausted: “You ain’t giving up, huh?”

“No.”

Kit buzzed the door open. Bette opened the door for me and we headed inside.