PART 3
The room became impossibly quiet.
Megan.
My younger sister.
Three years younger than me. Thirty-six years old. Godmother to our daughter. The woman who came over every Christmas morning in fuzzy pajamas carrying cinnamon rolls because she said family should wake up together.
The woman who had hugged me two weeks earlier and thanked me for helping her pay her rent when she lost overtime.
I stared at him.
“No.”
“It’s not—”
“No.”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped across the hardwood.
“You don’t get to use her name and then start explaining.”
He finally looked up.
His eyes weren’t angry.
They were scared.
“Lita, please sit down.”
“I’ve spent eleven years sitting down while you explained my own money to me.”
I grabbed my purse, my notebook, and the envelope holding Tuesday’s tips.
He stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To ask my sister whether she knows she’s your girl.”
Sisters Don’t Lie… Until They Do
Megan lived twelve minutes away in a duplex she’d rented after her divorce.
The whole drive, I rehearsed different versions of the conversation.
Please tell me this is stupid.
Please tell me he’s lying.
Please tell me the clerk described somebody else.
By the time I parked, my hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my keys.
She opened the door wearing one of my old college sweatshirts.
“Lita? What happened?”
I walked inside without answering.
Her apartment smelled like vanilla candles and laundry detergent.
Normal.
Everything looked painfully normal.
She noticed my face.
“You’re scaring me.”
I turned my phone around.
I’d taken a picture of the photograph hanging inside the gas station.
Duane smiling beside the oversized winner’s check.
She frowned.
“…Okay?”
“The clerk said you were his girl.”
Her expression didn’t change.
Not immediately.
Then something almost invisible happened.
Her shoulders dropped.
Just slightly.
I knew my sister.
That tiny movement meant she recognized the sentence before I finished it.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I said.
Megan closed her eyes.
“Oh God.”
The words hit me harder than if she’d slapped me.
“No,” I whispered. “No, don’t say ‘Oh God.’ Say he’s lying.”
She covered her mouth.
Tears filled her eyes almost instantly.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“I didn’t know how.”
“When, Megan?”
She started crying.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I felt strangely empty.
“How long?”
She shook her head violently.
“It’s not an affair.”
I laughed again.
“There it is. Another classic.”
“It isn’t!”
“Then explain why my husband calls you his girl.”
She wiped her face.
“Because… because that’s what he put in my phone.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“He saved my contact as ‘My Girl’ as a joke years ago.”
My stomach twisted.
Years ago?
“Why would that ever be funny?”
She hesitated.
And that hesitation was enough.
“How many years?”
She looked at the floor.
“Five.”
Five years.
Five Christmases.
Five birthdays.
Five years of family photos.
Five years of Sunday dinners.
I backed away.
“I never touched him,” she said quickly.
“I swear on Mom’s grave.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t!”
“Then why is your contact saved like that?”
“Because he started helping me after the divorce.”
“What kind of helping?”
“Money.”
I froze.
Money.
“The four thousand?”
She nodded once.
“I never knew where it came from.”
The Story She Told
We sat across from each other at her tiny kitchen table.
The same table I’d bought her at IKEA after she’d left her husband.
She couldn’t stop crying.
“I was drowning, Lita.”
“I know.”
“No… you knew I was struggling. You didn’t know how bad.”
She opened a drawer and pulled out unpaid bills.
Electric.
Medical.
Car insurance.
Past due.
“I hid them.”
“I would’ve helped.”
“I know you would’ve. That’s exactly why I couldn’t ask.”
She took a shaky breath.
“After my divorce, Duane started checking in. He’d ask if I needed groceries. Sometimes he’d leave cash in my mailbox. Forty dollars. Fifty dollars. A hundred once.”
My chest tightened.
Forty dollars.
Every Monday.
“He said not to tell you because you’d just give me your own money instead.”
I whispered, “Because it was my money.”
Her face crumpled.
“I didn’t know.”
“You never asked where it came from?”
“He told me he’d been working overtime.”
I almost smiled at the cruelty of it.
There was no overtime.
There was my apron.
My aching feet.
