Page 59 of The Favorite Sister

“Oh, yeah.” Layla tucks her chin. “What’s it called again?”

“Hand of Fatima,” Jen answers, and I realize she’s wearing one too. I don’t need to look at my sister’s neck to know they got a three-for-two deal at the souk today.

“It’s supposed to keep anything bad from happening to you,” Layla tells me.

I reach for something that looks like lamb. “Is there enough food here for you?” I ask Jen, at the same time deliberately scraping the meat off the bone with my teeth like the top of the food chain savage I am. “I told them we have a vegan in the house.” I stick a greasy finger in my mouth and suck off the juices. Definitely lamb. Lamb has such a distinct taste—pure animal.

Jen buries her face in a mug of tea, her words parting the steam. “It’s plenty.”

“Are you sure?” I say, scooching closer to the table to examine the spread. “What can you even eat here?”

Jen indicates her paltry options because I did not, in fact, call ahead and warn the hotel we had a vegan guest in our party, because we do not have a vegan guest in our party. “Olives, carrots, naan, hummus.”

“There’s egg in the naan and feta in the hummus,” I tell her.

“You’re so thoughtful to worry so much about me.” Jen means to smile but only shows her teeth. “I ordered some veggie kabobs to the room earlier so I’m not very hungry.” She sets her tea on the low table, linking her hands around her knees, her beady eyes alighting. “Is Steph coming or did you two have another fight?”

“We had so much to catch up on we lost track of time,” I return, easily. “But, I’m sure any minute now.”

I watch Lauren make eye contact with Lisa over my shoulder. “Maybe I should go check on her,” she says. She climbs to her feet, holding tight to her water glass. A lot of lime in that water.

I do not want the second camera crew following Lauren upstairs so she can grill Stephanie—Have you heard the one about your husband and Brett’s sister?I stand and offer to go with her.

“Brett,” Kelly says, tugging on the hem of my dress, “we actuallywant to talk to you about something.” I stare down Lauren a moment, but what can I really do? I can’t be everywhere at once. Reluctantly, I return to my seat on the floor, watching Lauren sashay out of the room, her caftan grazing the black-and-white medina floor, the assistant cameraman weaving the same unsteady path behind her.

“We were talking,” Kelly continues, tucking her hair behind her ear and glancing at Jen to make it clear who she was talking to, “and we thought that maybe when we get back we can throw you a bachelorette party at Jen’s Hamptons house.”

I point a lamb rib at my chest, looking both ways over my shoulders, as though she couldn’t possibly be talking to me.

Kellyhar-harsat my put-on bewilderment. “Yes, you. Jen was saying she’d like one last summer weekend in the house before it sells.”

“And I think it’s important to continue to feed this good energy between us,” Jen says. “Celebrating joy builds walls that keep animosity out.”

Jesus, hold my earrings. We both know this is a production-driven move—there is always “one last hurrah” before the end of every season, an event that brings the women together to kiss and make up before we tear each other to shreds at the reunion. I had been the one to suggest a bachelorette party to Lisa, I just didn’t think Jen would be the one hosting it.

“Are you going to have guy or girl strippers?” Layla asks, already red-faced, mouth covered, waiting for Kelly to scold her.

“Nostrippers.” Kelly wraps her arm around Layla’s shoulder and kisses her forehead while Layla squirms. Kelly says something quietly into Layla’s ear that stills her.

We pick at the food and make safe observations about the weather and the people and the time change, and I go over the plan for tomorrow. The vans are leaving at 7:00A.M.—one for us and the crew, one for the bikes. The village of Aguergour is only twenty-one miles away, but as the last ten miles are a dirt track on the edge of a treacherous mountain range, it will take over an hour to get there.

The waiters come to clear the platters and bring out coffee andtea. Layla stops them from taking her plate. It’s full of bread and dips and meat that she hasn’t touched. “I put it together for Lauren and Stephanie,” she says, and Jen’sawmaybe would have duped me had I not seen how she looked at my sister earlier.

I tried to get Kelly alone before dinner, to share with her my suspicions that Jen is not her friend, that she has only glommed on to her to push a narrative that Kelly has slept with Vince. I was also hoping to finally get a definitive response from her regarding whether or not she actually slept with Vince—because on that, I am still not clear—but Kelly hasn’t left Jen’s side since we arrived this afternoon, and I’m too smart to put this into a text message.

“Here we are!” Lauren peals.

When I look up, it appears to be only Lauren in the doorway, holding that same glass of heavily limed water. But then Stephanie steps out from behind her, her wet hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and a shocking amount of makeup on her face, even for her.

“Sorry,” Steph says, unapologetically.

I make room for her on my pillow. “It’s fine. It’s all very casual. Layla saved you a plate.”

“You are such a sweetheart!” Lauren cries.

Stephanie mumbles something that I can’t quite make out, ignoring the spot I’ve opened for her and sitting next to Kelly, on the other side of the table across from Layla and me.

Kelly turns to her, which is a lot more confrontational when you are shoulder to shoulder with someone, sharing a bright pink pillow. “What was that?”