Page 35 of Letting Go

God.

I could laugh, if I didn’t want to throw up.

“I’m your sister,” I say. “That’s my husband. Do you even understand what that means?”

She flinches like I slapped her. Good.

“I didn’t think you loved him anymore.”

I stare at her.

“So, what, that makes it okay?” I say. “Should I be thanking you for taking him off my hands?”

She looks down at her hands, ashamed. And I want to feel something; rage, fury, fire but all I feel is exhaustion. Like my grief crawled into my bones and set up camp there.

And then she starts talking. Her voice goes soft. Softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“It was Christmas,” she says. “You had just left for the office, and he came back inside. He was... mad. I don’t know why. He started drinking, a lot. And that day, Mom and Dad told me they weren’t getting me a car anymore. I was pissed. I stormed out. Michael was still outside, waiting for his cab.”

She pauses. I say nothing. I can’t.

“I sat down next to him, and we just started talking. He said he missed you. I told him college sucked. And then suddenly... I don’t know, we were kissing.”

I suck in a breath, sharp and shaky.

“I pushed him away. Immediately. I swear. And he left. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I thought he’d tell you. That you’d hate me. I couldn’t stand it. So I went to your house that night to apologize. You were already gone. I didn’t know.”

Another pause.

“One thing led to another,” she says. “We ended up in bed.”

I close my eyes. My skin prickles. Everything inside me folds in on itself like origami soaked in gasoline.

“Did you feel forced?” I ask. The words nearly choke me on the way out.

“No.” Her voice is so quiet it’s almost a ghost. “I know you want to blame him. But it was my fault, too. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She starts crying, full body sobs, hands shaking. And me?

I just sit there. Watching her.

Because part of me does blame her. And part of me still wants to protect her. And most of me doesn’t know how the hell I’m supposed to live in a world where both of those things are true.

“Stop crying,” I say.

It’s sharp. Loud enough to cut through the café hum and her ugly, hiccupping sobs. She startles like a kicked dog. Everyone’s looking now; the guy with the turkey sandwich, the barista pretending not to eavesdrop, the couple two tables over who’ve stopped pretending to be interested in their phones.

“I mean it,” I say, low and flat. “You keep going like this, I’m getting up and walking out of here. I’ll leave, Keira. I’ll walk out of your life for good.”

She goes quiet, like someone yanked the plug. Her shoulders still heave, but the sobs taper off into jagged little breaths, like a car sputtering to a stop.

“Breathe if you need to,” I add. “But no more theatrics. You don’t get to play the broken little girl. Not tonight.”

She presses the sleeves of her hoodie into her eyes. Nods. Her mouth is quivering, but she keeps it shut this time.

“You knew what you were doing.”

She looks up, all wounded innocence and wet cheeks, lips parting to object, but I hold up my hand. A warning. One word and I’m gone.

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