And I kept waiting for Michael to stop it. To pull back. To say come on, Rach in that easy way he had. To sit a little farther away. To put his hand on my knee under the table the way he used to.
He didn’t. He let her.
That was the part that hurt most. Not Rachel. I’d been dealing with Rachel my whole life. I knew what Rachel was.
It was Michael. My husband. The man who rewrote my chemistry notes and held me all night when
my grandmother died. Sitting there, letting my sister flirt with him right in front of me, and smiling into his wine glass like it was all just fine.
That night, in the guest room, I sat on the edge of the bed while Michael brushed his teeth in the
little bathroom.
“Why are you letting Rachel act like this?” I asked.
He came to the bathroom door with his toothbrush in his mouth. “Act like what?”
“Don’t do that. You know exactly what I mean. The chair. The comments. If I’d met you first. She was all over you all night, Michael. In front of Tom. In front of me.”
