The kitchen went strangely clear around her. She heard the ceiling fan, the refrigerator compressor, the muffled rumble of an L train a few blocks away. Small household sounds seemed to sharpen whenever something catastrophic was trying to masquerade as ordinary.
“Try again,” Carissa said.
Damen sprinkled cheese over his pasta like he was explaining weather. “Back when we first started dating, some of the guys met Nikki at that barbecue your cousin hosted in Naperville. They assumed she was my girlfriend. I never corrected them. It was nothing. Then people moved, years passed, social media did what it does, and they all basically think I ended up marrying her.”
Carissa did not blink.
Damen looked up finally, saw that she wasn’t following his timeline toward the place he wanted it to end, and added the part he clearly thought would solve it.
“So I need Nikki to come with me as my wife.”
He said wife in the tone a man might use for coat or receipt.
Carissa felt the blood drain out of her face so completely it almost fascinated her. “You told your friends you married my sister.”
He exhaled, impatient already. “I didn’t tell them. Exactly. I just didn’t correct anything.”
“That is lying.”