“So, are we solving the day’s problems with sugar or alcohol?”

It’s a great question. The same one I’ve been debating for the last eighteen minutes, standing on the exact spot on the sidewalk that is equidistant from the front door of Nana’s Old-Fashioned Doughnuts and the liquor store.

“You look better today.” My older sister, Kiersten, tucks a strand of strawberry-blond hair behind my ear. I’d argue that the hair wasn’t out of place, seeing as the best I could do this morning was an intentionally messy bun, but Kierst is used to acting like a mama hen, given our ten-year age difference.

“I feel good,” I lie. She knows it, I know it. But to be fair, today, I’m showered, dressed, and wearing clean underwear, a significant improvement from the last three stinky, wallowy, underwear-optional weeks.

“I think Nana’s is probably the right life choice.” I step toward the clear glass door of the doughnut shop. Kiersten follows behind me. As the door swings open, we are blasted with the sweet scent of sugar and yeast and happiness. Yes. This is the exact type of comfort I need.

We take our place in line behind a handful of other hungry Hamiltonians who have excellent taste in morning pastries and eye the double-wide glass case hosting dozens of artisanal doughnuts handcrafted with Nana’s love.

“What are you getting?” Kiersten nudges me with her elbow as her eyes lock onto a row of Coconut Dreams. Her question is more of a formality. A Wilde sister ritual. To say we come here often is an understatement. A gross understatement.