I did a good job of telling my sister-in-law that my husband and I were in love

on

My sister-in-law is not my sister-in-law. They are half sisters. It’s a
marriage of convenience. And I did a good job of telling them what that
means.

I didn’t tell them that my husband and I were in love—that is not our normal
mode of communication. But that, too, is not necessarily a bad thing.

We are friends. We’ve hung out twice.

We went out. We were in the same place. It was early in the morning (when
the sun is still far enough away from the earth that the sun is not in
the sky) and we were wearing matching T-shirts.

We were sitting in different parts of the restaurant. We didn’t interact.
We watched the other customers. We ordered food. We ate our food. Then we
left.

We took two separate taxis. We left early in the morning. We stopped
talking on the way to the airport.

We’ve hung out at the same bar twice. We’ve never seen each other there. We’ve
always been there.

We’ve never seen each other at a hotel. We’ve always been there. We’ve
never left the same hotel twice. We have never stayed in the same bed.

It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a picture of friendship.
We’ve never been friends. We’ve never known each other that much as friends.

It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a picture of love. We’re not
in love.

We had not been together less than a month. We had not been together less
than ten minutes.

We did not know each other well enough for our friendship to be a
marriage. And yet, to my certain knowledge, I have never had to worry about
keeping a promise to Evey. I never even gave her my number. I did not need
that to be sure that I would call on her when she was in need of some
femme fatale help in finding her mother’s grave.

I think I like her a little more than her grandmother. I like her a lot
more than her dad. I like her a lot more than my sister-in-law.

I think she would be a good friend. I think she might be a really good
friend. My sister-in-law is a terrible friend. She does not like Evey.
She told me that. I think she is afraid of having to tell Evey the same.
She fears Evey’s reaction.

I like Evey. I really like Evey. I think she’s a good friend. I like her a
lot.

I did tell her that I would call her when she was in need of some femme fatale
help in finding her mother’s grave. I never gave her my number.

She called me. She was in her bedroom. I was sitting on the sofa. Her face
was not red with fear. She said:
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.
I didn’t mean to be mean. I am so sorry. I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I know you do not mean to be mean. I know you were just being silly and
joking. I want to explain this to my grandma. I want you to know that I
love you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
The next day, she called me and said she was not in the mood to talk about
it. And she would never call again. She would never call again as long as
she lived.

Because she knew someone would call her and she would have to ask them to
do something for her. That was the point of the story.

She was my friend. I knew she would call me if she was in need.

She called me a few minutes after her mother’s death when she was still
not in a mood to talk about it.

I am not going to ask, and please do not ask, what was the story of the
day that she called me. I am not going to tell you that the two of us were
in the bathroom together.

I want to tell you about her. I want to tell you about me.
She was there. She was not there.

She was there because she was there. I was there and she was not. She did
not mean to be mean. She did not mean to be silly. She did not mean to
joke.

She was not there that night. She was in her bedroom. She was not there
that morning.
She was in her bed. She was not there that afternoon.
She was in her bedroom. She was not there that evening.
She was in her bedroom. She was not there that morning.
She was running around trying to find the right room. She was not there.
She was not there that evening.

She went to the wrong room. She came back and asked if it was the right
room. She was not there.

I am not going to tell you about how we found her mother’s grave or that no
one, not even her grandpa, knew where it was.

I am not going to tell you about how we found her mother. Because she was
there.

She was there that day.

I was not there.

I was not there when she found her mother’s grave. Because
she was not there.

She was there that
weekend.

I was
not there.

She was
there when
the sun
dipped
that
week
before
it
risen.
It was not my job to keep her from walking over the edge of the cliff.

She was not there when the sun dipped that Sunday while we were in church,
because she was not there.

We sat in a pew. She was not there.

I was not there.

She was a little girl. She was not there.

She was a little girl. She was not there.

She was a little girl. She was not there.

She was a little girl. She was not there.

She was not there when I went to the altar. She was not there when we sang
the hymn. She was not there when I took her to the choir loft. She was not
there when I took her to the choir loft when she saw us kissing. She was
not there when I took her to the choir loft when I said she could be my
friend.

She was not there when I kissed her.

I was not there.

She was not there sitting next to me.

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