I’ll never cross a line with her, but I bet I’ll think about it, from time to time.
Bloody hell, I know I will. I alreadyam.I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I’ve donemorethan think about it since her shirt rode up while waiting for the elevator.
It’s after eleven when the driver finally announces there’s too much cloud cover and the trip is a wash. I’m glad someone has finally called the time of death on this thing—Rebecca has been up for at least thirty-six hours…It’s enough.
Lars, sitting up front, frowns. “Are you sure we can’t—”
“Lars, let’s just go back to the hotel, okay?” I ask, glancing at my shivering fake wife. “And crank the heat.”
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Her frame is curled inward for warmth, and I may not like her much, but it’s painful to watch. If she were my real wife, I’d put my arm around her shoulders and have her nestle against me until she fell asleep.
I cross my arms instead. “We need you healthy to start training for the marathon.”
She blinks. “Marathon? What?”
“It’s the final episode,” I reply, before I remember that I’m the only one of us who’s seen the episode breakdown. “The marathon in your hometown. You knew your father and Bronwyn were running it, didn’t you?”
Her lower lip trembles. “No, I didn’t. But I don’t run.”
Lars must hear something in her tone. He’s turned ever so slightly in our direction.
“You’re young and appear to be reasonably fit, plus you’ve got five months,” I argue.
“No,” she whispers.
I sigh. I know she’s exhausted…it was a long day even for someone with a full night’s sleep. Maybe it’s not the best time to tell her she’s got to run twenty-six miles next fall, but I’m a little tired of her tendency to just say no as if we’re all puppets she can pull by our strings. Every once in a while, she’s got to get with the program.
“It’s already booked,” I say firmly. “And it’s a perfect way to end the first season, plus it’s a really nice way to honor—”
“I can’t replace Bronwyn.” Her voice is hoarse, threadbare. She is falling apart, out of nowhere, and this pinch of worry at the base of my spine suggests it might not be about running or lack of sleep. “I know that’s what everyone would prefer. But I can’t justbecomeher now to make everyone happy.”
“No one’s asking you to—”
“Yes you are. Even if you don’t realize it, you are. Do you know how often you imply that you wish I was different?”
A hundred responses come to mind. A hundred ways sheshouldbe different. Before I can offer them, she continues.
“It’s constant. It’s every single time you sigh, or make fun of what I’m wearing, or assume the worst. You’re annoyed that I’m cold, that I don’t eat dinner, when I make a dumb joke. And what you’re really saying is that you’re not okay with who I am, and the person you wish I would be, whether you realize it or not, is my sister. I have spent my entire life hearing people tell me they wish I was Bronwyn—” She lifts her head, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “And now they wish it was me instead of her when she died, and I just can’t—”
Her voice breaks and my stomach drops as it happens—in part because she’s right. When I first heard about the crash, wasn’t one of the first things I thought,It’s a shame it was the good daughter who died? How many other people thought the same thing? Jessie’s sisters, certainly. Perhaps even Rebecca herself.
Jesus…it was only this morning that I made that crack about her not finishing college. When she converted the currency, I was snide about that as well.
It had nothing to do with me disliking her. I’m just a prick and I didn’t want to muddy the waters. This fake marriage felt safer with me not liking her, and her not likingme.
Clearly, though, I’ve taken it too far.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “And as the sibling of a beloved olderbrother, I understand that more than you can imagine. But you can’t assume that every time I argue with you, or say something shitty, I’m telling you to be your sister. I met your sister once and barely remember her, but I doubt very much I’d have liked her more than you.”
“You would have,” she whispers. “She’s like you.Wasmore like you. Adult, polite, responsible.”
I’m not sure I’d consider myself any of those things. I certainly haven’t been especially adult or polite to Bex. “I doubt I’d have liked her better. Would she have tried to get me to start smoking?”
“She would not.”
“Would she have told me I’d still lose the Grief Olympics even if my mother died?”
