Carissa sat in the armchair across from them because she suddenly wanted to see how far they would go in front of her.
They went very far.
They stole the story of the rooftop proposal overlooking the river. They stole the anniversary dinner at the French restaurant in River North where Carissa had cried into a linen napkin because she had been so absurdly happy then she didn’t know what else to do with it. They stole the weekend in Saugatuck, Michigan, where she and Damen had gotten caught in the rain and ended up drinking bourbon from paper cups in a motel because every nicer place in town had been booked.
When Carissa corrected a detail—“It was French, not Italian”—Damen rolled his eyes.
“Does that matter?”
“It mattered when it happened.”
He gave Nikki a look and spoke in a higher-pitched imitation that was almost comically cruel. “It mattered when it happened.”
Nikki laughed.
Carissa felt the laugh hit somewhere below the sternum.
“Why don’t you go do some work?” Nikki said with a sweet smile. “Isn’t that your zone?”
There are women who throw wine.
Carissa had always admired them.
She only nodded, stood, and walked upstairs.