Page 63 of The Favorite Sister

Steph leans back, getting comfortable, a dangerous smile pulling at one corner of her mouth. “Is that so?” she asks, nodding, thinking it over. She strokes the underside of her chin, ruefully. “Ask her to narrow it down for me, Laur. Is it a him?” She looks directly at me. “Or is it a her? Because really,” her laugh tinkles, “I could go either way.”

My hands and feet go numb. It is chilly up here, so close to a woman I thought I knew so well. Because the Steph I knew cared deeply about the dog and pony show. She was hell-bent on protecting her pride. If I wanted, I could turn to the cameras and sayyou can’t use thisorfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshit, which we do sometimes to blemish the shot if it isn’t to our liking. But doing so would only draw more attention to Stephanie’s oh-so-unsubtle insinuation that we had a thing. It won’t make Lisa let go of that theory, it will only make her latch on harder.

Lauren translates Steph’s question for Jamilla. Jamilla closes her eyes, thinking about it—is it a him or a her?Lui, she says to Lauren, after an airless moment.

“Him,” Lauren says to Steph.

Stephanie pouts. Shewantedthis to be about me, I realize, feeling dizzy.

Jamilla continues to speak.

“You let him hurt you because you believe, in your heart, that he loves you,” Lauren says. “But he has given his heart to someone else.”

Stephanie sidles up closer to Jamilla, her lips parted in absolute elation. “Is thatsomeonesitting here tonight?” She wiggles her fingers, spookily.

Jamilla looks to Lauren for assistance.

“Go on,” Stephanie whispers, at a silly, horror-movie pitch, “ask her.”

Lauren moves an inch away from Stephanie, but she does ask Jamilla the question.

“Oui.” Jamilla nods, and Stephanie claps her hands andwoot-woots.

“The personishere?” Stephanie cries. “Oh, goody goody gumdrops! Wait, okay.” She shimmies in her seat, excitedly. “I’m going to point, and I want her to tell me to stop when I’ve pointed to the person my husband has given his heart to.”

Stephanie raises one arm without waiting for Lauren to communicate her request to Jamilla. For a moment that feels incalculable, she rests an arrow-straight finger on Kelly.

Kelly starts to say, “This is”—but before she can finish, Steph directs her finger around the circle, stopping for a fraction of a second on Jen, then me, then Lauren. When she’s finished implicating all theDiggers, she raises her arm and points above our hairlines at Lisa, Marc, and the rest of the crew. Stephanie explodes with a hoarse laugh, one that sounds like it’s skinned a layer of tissue off the back of her throat.

“I have to tell you,” Stephanie says, wiping away tears of joy, “I was skeptical, at first. But this is the most accurate reading ever. She didn’t stop me on anyone—which is the God’s honest truth. Vince is theGoal Diggers’ bicycle. Everyone take a ride! We should have brought him instead of your fancy new electric bikes, B. Kel, would you have let Layla ridehim?”

“Steph!” I say, horrified.

Kelly hooks her hand under Layla’s armpit, standing, forcing Layla onto her feet with her.

“Mom!” Layla cries, trying to find her footing.

“On that note,” Kelly says with a thin, ferocious smile.

Layla rips her arm away from Kelly.

“We’re going to bed,” Kelly hisses at her, and Layla skulks ahead, her long legs outpacing my sister’s, clanging open the heavy wooden door without bothering to hold it for Kelly.

“That was fun.” Stephanie sighs, contentedly, leaning back and resting her hands on her stomach, like she’s just finished a fabulous meal. “Who’s next?” She turns to me. Her makeup is truly insane. She’s extended her dark charcoal eyeshadow far above the arch of her brow. “Roomie?” Her eyes glitter nastily. No, seriously, they glitter. That smoky neutrals eye palette she favors was always too heavy on the shimmer.

I watch the dark above me, listening to my sister breathe like Darth Vader in the next room. No fucking way was I shacking up with myroomieafter that little scene on the roof of the riad. I’d rather not be shanked in my sleep.

I’m on the short couch in the living room, Jen in the bedroom to my left and Kelly and Layla in the one to my right. I assumed Kelly would sleep in the bed with Jen and I would bunk down with Layla, but apparently my sister and the Green Menace aren’tthere yetin their friendship. I flop onto my stomach, sighing, jet-lagged, uncomfortable. My feet are hanging off the arm of the love seat and I’m only five foot three.

I’m considering moving to the floor when I detect movement behind me—bedsheets thrown off, a soft bump, a softerow. I figure Jen is just getting up to pee out all that mint tea, but then the door wheezes open, and Jen’s feet are making a sticky sound on the tile floors.

I squeeze my eyes shut and go very still. Jen pauses next to the couch, watching me. Goose bumps flare across the back of my arms. I’m sure my eyelids are twitching but I’m hoping her eyes haven’t adjusted enough to notice. After a few moments, she continues her tacky trek toward the door. I crack open an eye and in the brief flash of light from the hallway, I see that she’s clutching her phone in her hand. I count to twenty-seven—my age—then I get up and follow her.

The second floor of the riad is outfitted with a small balcony at the end of the hallway, just past the stairwell. Sheer curtains snap in the cool breeze, providing a sound cover. I stay flat against the wall, sidestepping my way closer to Jen. The breeze stops, and I stop. It turns a sort of quiet that makes Jen’s voice the star, a clear, bitchy three-in-the-morning solo.

“... to hear your voice tell me it’s okay,” Jen is saying, as I hold my breath and starfish the wall. The pious camera tenor is gone, replaced by something I’ve never heard before: something like tenderness. Is she on the phone with Yvette?

“Yes, she pointed at everyone. But she started with Kelly. And sort of, like, lingered on her.”