Page 82 of Necessary Cruelty

“Jesus.”

“It wasn’t that Sophia girl, was it? You being with her seems a little sad, I don’t know why.”

I put down my own taco before I crush it in my fingers. “No one is pregnant. And this has nothing to do with Sophia.”

“I heard dad saying something about babies the other day and I know Mom isn’t pregnant, because she refuses to ever go through that again.” She shakes her milkshake and then slurps up a large mouthful. “What is it, then? Must be something big if we did Sweethaus and Ricardo’s in one day.”

This girl is too smart for her own damn good. Or mine. “Some things are happening, and I want you to hear about it from me first.”

Emma just stares at me, expressive blue eyes that are big as a porcelain doll’s give absolutely nothing away. She learned her poker face from me, so there is no way to know how she might react. “And?”

“And I have to get married.”

She blinks. “To Sophia?”

“God, of course not. To a girl I don’t think you’ve ever met. Her name is Zaya.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated legal stuff, but we’ll lose a bunch of money if I don’t. When Dad married my mom, there were a bunch of rules that her father insisted on making. Me getting married is one of them.”

Lifting the cover off her cup, Emma stirs what’s left of her milkshake before looking back up at me. “Are you mad about it.”

“I was, but I’m getting used to the idea.” The world has tilted on its axis, and now up is down, right is wrong, and Zaya Milbourne is the next Mrs. Cortland. “Are you upset about it?”

“Nah.” Emma lifts the cup to her mouth and tilts it up to slurp out the last bit of milkshake. When she sets it back down, there’s a ring of chocolate around her mouth. “As long as you and her move into the house with me so I’m not alone all the time.”

A pang of unease shoots through me. That house is like an altar to all of my worst memories. Every time I’m within its walls, an itch starts up under my skin, and it’s hard to breathe. “I’ll let her decide.”

“You’re not usually nice like that to girls.” With her fingers, Emma picks up the last bit of meat and cheese that had fallen from her taco and pops it in her mouth. “Do you love her?”

Every time I try to pretend that my sister is still just a little girl, she hits me a with a gut shot. I can’t lie to her, because she’ll see right through it. But I can’t tell the truth, because I haven’t figured out what it is yet. “No idea.”

“I think it’s going to work out,” she says, with all the certainty of a girl still in middle school. “She’s like Cinderella, and you’re Prince Charming. It can’t possibly go wrong.”

Except, Prince Charming didn’t climb into Cinderella’s window, hold her down, and fuck her like a whore before the ball.

Maybe in the German version, who knows. The Brothers Grimm got freaky as hell with some of those stories.

“You’ll like her,” I finally say, even though I have no way to know whether or not it’s true, but realize I’m nearly positive it is.

“If you do, then I know I will.”

But that’s the problem with leaving parts of your life to chance — you can never be certain what might be coming for you next.

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