There was no apology in her voice. Not even discomfort. Just that familiar younger-sister entitlement, as if the world had again presented her with something Carissa had built and she had decided it would fit her better.
Carissa sat in the armchair across from them because she suddenly wanted to see how far they would go in front of her.
They went very far.
They stole the story of the rooftop proposal overlooking the river. They stole the anniversary dinner at the French restaurant in River North where Carissa had cried into a linen napkin because she had been so absurdly happy then she didn’t know what else to do with it. They stole the weekend in Saugatuck, Michigan, where she and Damen had gotten caught in the rain and ended up drinking bourbon from paper cups in a motel because every nicer place in town had been booked.
When Carissa corrected a detail—“It was French, not Italian”—Damen rolled his eyes.
“Does that matter?”
“It mattered when it happened.”
He gave Nikki a look and spoke in a higher-pitched imitation that was almost comically cruel. “It mattered when it happened.”
Nikki laughed.
Carissa felt the laugh hit somewhere below the sternum.
“Why don’t you go do some work?” Nikki said with a sweet smile. “Isn’t that your zone?”
There are women who throw wine.
Carissa had always admired them.
She only nodded, stood, and walked upstairs.
Halfway to the landing, she stopped. Not because she heard words. Because she heard tone.
Laughter changed shape when it was safe. It softened. It dropped. It became private.
Carissa turned slowly and looked through the banister.
Damen had lifted his hand to Nikki’s face.
His thumb was brushing the curve of her cheekbone the way it had brushed Carissa’s years earlier on nights when he still looked at her like she was a destination instead of a utility. Nikki leaned toward his hand with her eyes half-closed. Their faces tilted. Their mouths hovered.
They were about to kiss in Carissa’s house, on Carissa’s couch, under the framed black-and-white print Carissa had bought in New York the year she made partner.
A floorboard shifted under Carissa’s foot.
Both of them jerked apart.
And then, instantly, the performance began.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Damen said.
“We were practicing,” Nikki added. “For affection.”
Carissa came down the stairs at a measured pace and sat back in the armchair.
“Of course,” she said. “Affection rehearsal.”