Page 7 of Brother in Law with Benefits

The song builds. We're closer than we were at the start. I can feel the warmth of him. His jaw is tight. There's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there at the beginning of the song.

"Sophie." His voice is low. Rough.

"Yeah?"

"Congratulations. On the marriage." He says it like each word costs something. "I hope Chris makes you happy."

"Thank you."

There's something in his eyes. Something that makes my stomach drop and my skin feel too tight and a voice in the back of my head saying this is wrong, you're married, you just said vows three hours ago—

The song ends.

Grant steps back. Drops his hands. His face goes carefully blank.

"Enjoy your night," he says.

Then he walks away. And he keeps walking — out of the reception, out of the building, and apparently straight to O'Hare because he's gone by morning.

Chris reappears twenty minutes later, drunk and apologetic in a way that's just slightly off, like an impression of an apology rather than the real thing.

I dance with my husband and try not to notice the difference.

I open my eyes. Stare at the ceiling.

That was five years ago. Five entire years. I was twenty-three and certain and so sure I was in love with Chris Guilligan that I missed every single flag waving at me.

Chris, who disappeared during our first dance.

Chris, who always had a reason we couldn't start a family yet. Important work. Bad timing. Maybe next year.

Chris, who moved to Denver six months after I asked for a divorce and hasn't called his mother once during her cancer treatment. Not once.

And Grant, who flew in from wherever he was, danced with me when no one else would, and then did the one thing that would've been a kindness even if it didn't feel like it: he left.

It occurs to me, lying here at four in the afternoon with my body exhausted and my brain unwilling to cooperate, that I could draw a very tidy little chart of every person who's ever mattered to me sorted into two columns —staysandleaves— and the leaves column would be depressingly full for a twenty-eight-year-old who thinks of herself as reasonably good at picking people.

My father, who traded Copper Falls for Florida and a younger family before I finished high school. My mother, who finds time to call to mention, gently, that I really should think about moving somewhere with better opportunities, as if the problem has ever once been geography. Chris, obviously. An entire column of people who looked at the option of staying and picked something else instead, every single time, and I built an entire personality out of not needing them to.

Thestayscolumn has exactly one name in it that isn't a coworker or a plant, and it's a sixty-seven-year-old woman with a purple headscarf who isn't even technically related to me anymore, not since the divorce went through.

I check my phone. Three-fifty. If I fall asleep right now I might get ninety minutes before I need to start getting ready.

I close my eyes. Open them again. Look at the ceiling some more.

The ceiling has a water stain in one corner that I've been meaning to report to the building manager for four months. It looks vaguely like a map of the British Isles. This is what I'm thinking about at three-fifty in the afternoon instead of sleeping. This is my life.

I throw off the covers and go back to the kitchen.

The succulent is still there on the windowsill, still smug, still thriving on my neglect. I give it a small nod of acknowledgment. We have an understanding, the succulent and I.

My phone buzzes. Patty.

I pick it up, already smiling because Patty texts like she talks — direct, efficient, slightly plotting.

Patty:How was your nap, honey?

Me:Great! Very restful.