Nora didn’t know where to start. She couldn’t believe she’d kept it a secret from Mariana for so many weeks.
In front of her, Mariana leaned forward and bared her teeth, aiming for her knee. “I’ll do it,” she growled. “I’ll bite you so hard . . . Tell me.”
“It was just once.”
Mariana narrowed her eyes. “Are you lying to me?”
“No.”
“Soooo hot,” her sister drawled. “A one-night stand with your best friend.”
“You’re my best friend. Duh.” Nora hated it when Mariana called Harrison that. It wasn’t like you got a choice when you were a twin. Nora’s best friend had been chosen in utero forty-four years prior. If Mariana had ended up being a psychopathic serial killer, it would have just meant that Nora’s best friend was on death row.
She took a deep breath and placed a hand over her bellybutton.
Mariana clapped twice. “Your best male friend. Whatever. Tell me.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“You’re killing me. So. When?”
Nora felt her face color.
“Oh, Nora. How long ago? You didn’t tell me?” Mariana’s voice was hurt.
They talked to each other. Every day. They always had, about everything. And yet, even yet, sometimes nothing was said.
“Eight weeks. Maybe nine.”
Mariana swallowed. Her neck was an inch longer than Nora’s—they’d measured once, when Nora had realized she wasn’t the same swan her sister was. “Wow.”
“I’m so sorry—” Eight weeks was an eternity not to tell her sister something this big. She told Mariana when Whole Foods ran out of the local Zocalo dark roast she loved best. She told her about her bad dreams. But she hadn’t told her about Harrison. Why?
Mariana waved her hand. “No, stop.”
“But—”
“Really, you’ll just end up making it worse.”
The words made Nora want to take back the apology, as sincere as it had been. There was no rule she had to tell Mariana anything at all. She hadn’t broken any laws. “It’s really not a big deal, anyway.”
Mariana’s hand crept up to grip the edge of the couch cushion her head leaned against. “You didn’t do anything wrong by not telling me. I’m sorry I reacted like that. Tell me everything.”
Her smile was an antidote to everything that hurt inside Nora. “Okay.”
“Most importantly, was it good?”
Nora folded her lips around her smile.
“Right on. More, please. Is he hung?”
Nora could only squeak. She held a finger to her lips and looked over her shoulder toward the staircase. It had been years since Ellie had hidden there, listening, but it could still happen.
“The reason I ask,” Mariana continued, “is because of his hands. They’re small. But I think they’re the deceptive kind of small, because his feet are frickin’ enormous. Remember when we went to the lake a few years back with Ellie and him? I couldn’t take my eyes off what was in his flip-flops.”
“Seriously?”
“I mentioned it to you then.”
“If you did, I blocked that out completely.” Harrison had brought an intelligent-looking but not-quite-smart-enough law student who hadn’t understood the importance of sunblock and had ended up with a blistered sunburn. Nora had shared her aloe vera gel.
Mariana shrugged, tucking her fist under her chin, catching it between her jaw and clavicle. “‘Friends with benefits’ isn’t a phrase because it never happens. Happens all the time. Look at me and Luke.”
“You met him in a bar and”—Nora broke off before almost whispering—“slept with him the night you met.”
“Yeah, but then he became my friend. Okay, and then my boyfriend. But whatever.”
Nora shook her head, but her heart felt light, like it was made of paper. She hadn’t realized how much she’d hated keeping the secret from her sister.
“Anyway. This isn’t about me. More.” Mariana rocked forward and backward once, tapping Nora’s knee with her forehead. “How did it start?”
“We had too much wine. Isn’t that always how it happens?”
“Where was Ellie?”
“At Samantha’s.”
“Ah. So you had too much wine on purpose.”
“No.” But she had. They had. She knew that. It was nice to have something to blame it on. The next morning, Harrison had rolled over with such a look, and it had cut something inside her, sliced her heart in a way she knew she couldn’t handle. He wanted more. She hadn’t seen that coming. Oh, man, she’d said to him. I drank so much last night. Can hardly remember a thing! She’d seen him pull back, a hurt snail retreating into its beloved shell. Yeah. Me, too.
They hadn’t talked about it. Not once in two months. He’d tried bringing it up one night, but she’d asked him not to. He’d complied.
“Whatever it was, I blew it.”
“Oh, my god.” Mariana sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “That means you’re admitting there was something to blow.”
“No, I didn’t . . .”
Mariana scrambled to her feet. “I’m going over there and dragging his ass over here.”
“No.”
“What?” Her sister cocked a hip. “I thought he was your best friend. Your other one.”
“Don’t,” said Nora, feeling as if they were in high school again and Mariana was teasing her, cajoling her to talk to boys when she could barely look at them. “Please don’t.” Tears thickened in her throat. Good grief, it wasn’t that serious. Mariana was teasing. Nora sucked in a breath. She couldn’t cry about it. God, don’t let Mariana see . . .
But she had. “Oh, honey. No. I’m sorry. Please, don’t . . .” Mariana sunk to the couch, pressing her knees against Nora’s. “Please don’t cry. You know how I get when you do.”
It was true. Sometimes it seemed like nothing in the whole world could truly upset Mariana except for seeing Nora cry. When Paul left, Mariana would climb behind Nora in her bed, unable to look her in the face while she howled, wrapping her arms around her, able to console Nora only from the back, only from where she was safe from the tears. When hit face-to-face with them (in the kitchen, at the grocery store), her cheeks went pale, her skin tone almost sallow. Nora suspected Mariana felt physically ill when she cried, actually experiencing nausea. It must be nice to be so strong you felt queasy in the face of weakness.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” said Mariana desperately. “You can’t cry. It’s bad luck. Or something. Have some goat cheese. Think of the kids.” A pause. “Get it?”
The damned crying—maybe it was a symptom of something. She really wanted to google it, but she was worried it would confirm a perimenopause diagnosis. Every day for at least the last five or six weeks, she’d either fought off tears or given in to them somewhere quietly, privately. Once Ellie had almost caught her, but she’d pleaded something was in her contact lenses, and Ellie, who didn’t seem to be able to notice anyone but herself lately, had bought it.
Tears trickled down Nora’s face. She wiped them away impatiently. “I’m not crying.”
“You are. God, Jesus, you are. Stop it. Please?” Mariana’s hands were fists in front of her belly.
“Are we going to box?”
“Will it stop you from crying?”
“I swear to everything holy, I’m not crying. This stupid water keeps coming out of my eyes. I think it’s allergies.”
From the direction of the kitchen came Ellie’s voice. She’d sneaked down the stairs—when? How much had she heard? “Mom?”
She sounded young. Small. “We’re in here. Just talking,” called Nora, scrubbing at her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
“No, here. Don’t.” Mariana used a napkin, one of the cheerful poinsettia ones Nora had sewed herself, using discounted post-Christmas fabric she’d found one year. They had prompted an essay, actually, about finding joy in craft store sale bins.
Mariana blotted carefully. “There. Blink. Good.”
“Where’s that cheese?” Ellie poked her head into the room.
“In here, chipmunk. Come give me a hug,” said Mariana.
Nora watched the two of them embrace. Her sister and her daughter. If Mariana couldn’t handle tears, at least she handled happiness well. She was used to it, after all. Inside, Nora felt a tiny bloom of fear, a terrified algae spreading through her blood. She reached into her jeans pocket to touch the piece of beach glass she kept there. Smooth and warm, as usual.
Then she stood with them. “I want more wine. Ellie? Sparkling apple cider? It’s your favorite.” She ignored the eye roll that went along with her daughter’s assent.
They’d celebrate the New Year, by god, even if she had to drag them both along behind her.