My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

Carissa sat down, twirled spaghetti around her fork, and was two bites in when he said, “So my ten-year reunion is next month, and I need Nikki to come with me.”

At first, the sentence did not register as language.

It was sound. Air. One more distraction in a life full of them.

Then it arranged itself.

Nikki.

Her younger sister.

Need.

Come with me.

Carissa kept chewing because sometimes the body moved more slowly than humiliation. She swallowed. Set the fork down. Looked at him.

“What did you just say?”

Damen rolled one shoulder as if she were the one making the moment heavy. “My high school reunion. Next month. I need Nikki to come with me.”

Carissa stared long enough for a lesser man to feel stupid. Damen only reached for the Parmesan.

“Why,” she asked carefully, “would my sister be coming to your reunion?”

He didn’t look embarrassed. That was the first wound.

He didn’t even look cautious. That was the second.

“Because I need her there,” he said.