“Not like him,” she’d say, and look right at him. “They don’t make them like Michael anymore.”
It made me uncomfortable. Every single time. I’d feel a little knot in my stomach, like I’d swallowed something that didn’t go all the way down.
But that was Rachel. That was just Rachel. She flirted with everyone. The waiter at the restaurant. The mailman. My father’s friends from church. It didn’t mean anything. That’s what I told myself.
And Michael never flirted back. Not that I could see. He’d just smile politely and change the
subject. Or he’d get up to help my mother in the kitchen.
“Your sister’s a lot,” he said to me once, on the drive home after Thanksgiving.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “She’s harmless.”
I believed him. I really did.
Then, two years ago, Rachel met Tom.
Tom was the best thing that ever happened to my sister. Everyone agreed on that.
He was thirty-four, a few years older than her. He was a civil engineer. He designed bridges. Actual bridges, over actual rivers. He was tall and quiet and a little bit shy, with glasses and big hands
