Chapter 2

For a second, no one moved.

Agnes went still, her glass halfway raised.

Jerome held the microphone, tilted his head, and glanced at me. His voice was gentle.

"Let me."

"You're not feeling great today. I'll say it for you."

He was already on his feet before I could answer, turning to face Agnes.

His voice was even, nothing out of place in it.

"Lois wants to say that these past few years, with you gone, she's missed you a lot."

"Don't go so far away again. Everyone's here at home. Come back anytime."

He paused before that last line.

Agnes lowered her eyes, the corner of her mouth curving.

"Okay. I know."

Their eyes met for less than a second, then each looked away.

I sat where I was and watched all of it, clear as day.

The aunt-in-law started the applause, and the room warmed back up.

I turned my head and looked at Jerome.

"That wasn't what I'd planned to say."

"And I can say it myself."

He blinked, then smiled and reached over to ruffle my hair.

"You've been red around the eyes since this afternoon. You've missed your sister that much, haven't you? I was afraid you'd lose it the second you opened your mouth."

Then he pulled me into his arms, easy as always.

The same as every other time.

If I hadn't noticed that when his arm came around me, its warmth was only lukewarm, and had never once burned,

I would probably have gone on believing it.

"Is that so."

The corner of my mouth twitched.

"Then thank you, really."

He didn't catch the shift in my tone.

Agnes came over, glass in hand.

Her smile was gracious, her bearing composed.

"Lois, time really flies. You're getting married next week."

She touched my cheek.

"I thought I'd miss your wedding. Good thing I made it back in time."

I lowered my eyes.

My stomach turned over in waves of nausea.

She turned to Jerome, her gaze holding on him for only half a second.

"Take good care of my little sister."

"Or I won't let you off easy."

Jerome never touched a drop, usually.

Right then he lifted his glass and drained it.

"I will."

Agnes turned and went to sit with the elders' table.

Laughter spread back through the hall.

And Jerome sat beside me, glass after glass.

I watched him drink and didn't stop him.

There was no point anymore.

That night Jerome got dead drunk.

Back home he collapsed onto the couch, his tie half crooked, eyes shut, mumbling.

"Agnes..."

"Why did you come back..."

I sat beside him and listened, very quietly.

Listened to my fiancé call my sister's name in his sleep.

My phone rang. It was the hotel.

"Good evening, Miss Henson. You asked earlier to cancel the reception. We wanted to confirm with you—the deposit is non-refundable."

I kept my voice low.

"That's fine. Confirm the cancellation."

I hung up. The man on the couch rolled over.

"Lois... water... my throat hurts..."

I didn't move.

I got up, went back to the bedroom, and shut the door.

Canceled all the invitations, all the wedding favors.

Opened my phone and booked a flight to Norway.

I'd always wanted to see the fjord glacier.

Jerome always said, once things settle down.

Now, there was no need to wait.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep.

And I began to go back over these ten years, one piece at a time.

The more I thought, the more there was.

Those days three years ago, before Agnes went abroad.

Jerome's inexplicable insomnia and silence.

Every time Agnes sent something back from overseas.

He'd always open the package for me, then stare at what was inside for a long time.

And in every photo of the three of us, the way his body tilted, just slightly.

Always toward Agnes's side.

I don't know when it started.

But I knew this much.

It was all supposed to be over.

The next morning, Jerome was already up.

He stood in the kitchen, apron tied at his waist, plain oatmeal simmering on the stove.

For ten years he'd made breakfast.

"You're awake?"

He carried the bowl to the table.

"I drank too much last night. I didn't say anything crazy, did I?"

I looked at that bowl of oatmeal on the table.

I don't eat oatmeal.

For ten years, every morning I've had toast and coffee, nothing else.

The one who loves oatmeal is my sister.

"No."

He let out a breath, then frowned.

"You didn't even pour me a glass of water last night. My throat's been sore all morning."

I didn't pick up my spoon.

"I'm not obligated to look after you."

His hands stopped.

He looked up at me, his eyes confused.

I looked straight at him, calmly picked up that bowl of oatmeal, and poured it down the sink.

"I don't eat oatmeal."

I turned around to face his stunned expression, and smiled.

"The one who's used to eating oatmeal is my sister."