Page 85 of My Grape Crush
But it's not a definitive no. It comes out cagey, loaded down with gravitas.
“Don’t lie to me, Ames. Don’t you dare!”
“Nothing happened,” she insists. “Not like that.”
My throat stays tight. “Then what?”
The kettle starts to shriek, then silence. I imagine her pouring hot water over a teabag, watching the color seep out. She always did this when she was buying time, gathering her thoughts.
“Hold on,” she says, and I bet she’s heading into the great room to curl up in Gramma’s rocking chair. The one where we sat in her lap while she read us bedtime stories. It’s her favorite place in the house. Her safe zone.
I feel robbed of breath, an icy grasp locked around my throat. Trying to make sense of why my sister has fibbed to me for years.
She clears her throat before taking a noisy slurp of tea. “When Dean and I went to Europe that summer, we had a stupid fight. Over nothing, really. And because I was drunk, and I’m petty, I ditched him. I hopped on a plane to Greece while he partied in Munich.”
“Greece,” I say tonelessly. “As in Corfu?”
“Yes,” her voice is strangely quiet, “I tried to connect with Rhys. I thought, why not? We had fun on the podcast.”
“Seriously? You were on your honeymoon.”
She sighs, and it's the heaviest sound she’s made in months. Maybe years. Even through childbirth, she barely whimpered.
“You have no idea, Dani,” she says in a barren voice I barely recognize. “I’ve fucked the same guy since high school. Every night it's the same damn thing. You’ve had the luxury of sleeping around. That was my moment. A chance to experience something different. Now, I’m trapped.”
“Trapped?” I repeat. Amelia wanted nothing more than to marry Dean. “I thought you were like two peas in a pod.”
“Because that’s what I make sure everyone sees,” she says with a trace of bitterness. “The anointed child who can do wrong.”
My mind rushes to process everything. Do I even know my sister? She’s pure as the driven snow. The one with the pristine life. And yet—she was ready to throw it all away by cheating with Rhys?
“So, then…”
I can almost feel her grimace over the phone. “I texted him and said I was on the island. Could we meet up for a drink? He said no, politely. It wasn’t his thing to hang out with the media. And I was pissed,” she admits. “I’d come all that way for nothing. I got hammered, and you know what the Rialto sisters are like after too much booze.”
“Go on,” I say through gritted teeth. I remember damn well Amelia line dancing on the bar in Mazatlán while I, the eternal wing woman, buffeted her from breaking a leg.
“Some locals at the bar told me where his house was.”
My heart gives a sharp little pulse. “You stalked him?”
“Listen,” she says, as if there is some legitimate excuse for her behavior, “I was a train wreck. Angry at Dean and Rhys. Men in general. Eventually, the police showed up, and I spent the night in jail. Or whatever they call it in Greece. A holding tank for drunks.”
I feel a mix of shock, disappointment, and pure incredulity. This is insane. Valedictorian Amelia in jail? “Jesus, Ames. I have no words.”
“You cannot tell Mom and Dad,” she stresses. “I managed to get out of there without Rhys pressing charges.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Yeah,” she says. “But Rhys warned me if I ever pulled a stunt like that again, he would call me out, no hesitation. Rake me over the coals of the public jury.”
I absorb that as best I can. The reality of this is weirder than I ever imagined. But now it all makes sense. “Is that why you shut the podcast down?"
“How was I supposed to carry on? My credibility went up in flames. Not to mention I was humiliated and embarrassed.”
If Rhys scoured my Instagram feed, he wouldn’t have recognized Amelia in our photos. Hair so blond, it was almost white with an adoring Dean gazing reverentially at his wife who made marital vows she had no intention of keeping.
“And Dean?” I ask. “Does he know?”
