I kept chewing because I assumed I’d misheard him. Nikki was my younger sister—prettier than me by conventional standards, thinner than me by fifteen pounds, and unemployed by choice for the last two years because she was “finding herself” on my dime. I paid her rent. I paid her car insurance. I paid for the highlights she got every six weeks because she said dark roots made her feel less confident. I didn’t realize I was also paying for her to attend my husband’s high school reunion, too.
I swallowed my pasta and said,
“Why would Nikki be coming to your reunion?”
Damen didn’t even look up from his phone.
“Because I need her there,”
he said like that explained everything.
I set my fork down and waited for him to elaborate, because surely there was more to this sentence. There wasn’t. He just kept scrolling through whatever app had his attention more than I did.
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“Damen,” I said.
