Each word landed like a small punch to the chest, but I didn’t react because I never reacted. I just absorbed it and kept functioning. That was my role in this marriage: provider, absorber, the other one.
“Besides,” Damen continued, “Nikki already said yes. She’s excited about it. She said it sounds fun.”
I blinked.
“You already asked her before asking me?”
He shrugged.
“I needed to make sure she was available first. Logistics.”
My sister had agreed to pretend to be my husband’s wife. My sister, who I’d been financially supporting for two years. My sister, who called me crying every month about how hard her life was. My sister, who I’d given everything to because that’s what big sisters did.
She’d said yes to this without even calling me first.
Damen must have seen something in my face because his expression softened into that fake concern he was so good at.
“Babe, don’t be upset. Nikki said you should be flattered that she’s willing to help. She’s doing this for us—for you, really. So I can network and maybe finally land something better than that cashier job you’re always complaining about.”
I wasn’t complaining about his cashier job. I was complaining about the fact that he’d had four cashier jobs in three years and quit each one because his managers “didn’t respect him.” I was complaining about funding his life while he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up—at thirty-four.
But somehow that had become me being unsupportive. Somehow everything always became my fault.
“One night,” Damen said again, watching me carefully now, seeing just how much more he needed to push. “Nobody gets hurt, and then we never talk about it again.”
