The Wife Before

So, guess what? I’m on your Facebook page right now and I can’t believe I had to find out through a social media app that you got married! What the fuck, Mel? This is not like you. I see he golfs. Didn’t know you were into golfers too but whatever. He’s older? He looks older. Anyway, call me back. I need to talk to you.

Mel, if you don’t call me back, I don’t know what I’ll do. I need you. Call me back please!

All right, you know what? Fine. I see how it is. You run off and get married to some rich fucker and forget where you come from. Cool. Just know if I do something crazy, it’s because my sister didn’t answer her goddamn phone. So much for family.

After listening to her last message, I sighed and went to her number. My finger hovered over her name, and I don’t know why I felt a sudden wave of dread, but it struck me hard.

Still . . . I called back. And I regret that I ever did.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A week later and my sister was in Colorado. My husband was away for work in Florida, so I had the mansion all to myself.

I waited in front of the door outside the house, watching my sister climb out of a yellow taxi with a dent in the front passenger door. She waved and I waved back. Then she walked up to me, the handle of a suitcase on wheels clutched in one of her hands, and hugged me tight.

“I missed you so much,” she sighed over my shoulder.

“Yeah. Missed you too.”

I told her that she could only stay one night in the mansion, and she relished in that. She ventured around the place, taking in every nook and cranny. She gaped over the kitchen and the firepit in the back. The den and how I’d furnished it, and even the relaxation room that I’d set up so Roland could de-stress during his breaks between golfing. She was in complete awe.

“So, this golfer guy is legit?” she asked.

“Depends on what you mean by legit,” I said with my back to her, fixing us both tea in the kitchen.

“I mean . . . like, he’s got money, right? You have money.”

I sighed and turned with the tea tray, carrying it to the table. “I don’t see why that matters, Miley.”

“I’m just asking.” She grinned and watched me pour the tea. When I was done, I slid a teacup over to her on a saucer.

“Bitch, this is fancy!”

I huffed a laugh. “It’s just a tea set.”

“You remember when we used to beg Momma for tea sets. Bitch hated us.”

I lifted my chin and cleared my throat, picking up my teacup and sitting in the seat across from her. I was not in the mood to talk about Momma. “I’m glad to see you’re better,” I remember saying.

“Oh, yeah. Much better.” She sipped her tea, then placed it down. Then she started tapping her knuckles on the tabletop. She was jittery that way—could never be still. I always told Momma that I thought she had ADHD, but she never took her to get an official diagnosis. She didn’t believe in any of that stuff. She always called mental health issues and crises “bullshit.”

“So why are you here?”

“Ah. The million-dollar question.” She always made everything a joke and it irritated the hell out of me. “I need a place to stay,” she said and I frowned.

“Where were you staying before?”

“With a friend from the clinic. He told me I could stay with him until I found a place.”

“Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’? What does that mean?” She flashed a smile. I couldn’t help noticing her smile wasn’t as innocent as it used to be. It was strained, sad.

“I don’t have a place for you to stay, Miley.”

“What?” she scoffed, then she looked around the mansion and then back at me as if I was an idiot. “You literally have a whole fucking mansion, Mel!”

“Yes, but it’s not just my mansion.”

“Okay . . . then just ask your little husband if I can stay.”

“No, Miley, I can’t just spring something like this on him.”

“Why the hell not? I’m sure he wouldn’t have a problem with you letting your only sister and sibling stay with you for a couple weeks.”

I immediately looked away and folded my arms defensively.

“Oh. Oh wow!”

My eyes slid back over to hers. Her jaw had dropped, her brown eyes wider. “You haven’t told him about me, have you?”

“Miley, it’s not that—”

“Yes, it is! You’re so ashamed of me that you haven’t even told your husband about me. Wow. Do you realize how fucked up that is?” She pushed back in her chair, the legs of it scraping the marble floor, and glared down at me.

“See, this is why I didn’t tell him about you! Because you blow everything out of proportion!”