Page 22 of In Every Chapter

She rolled her eyes. “This is payback for all the mushiness you and Paisley put me through. No one should have to witness that much sappiness. Especially when it’s your best friend and brother.” She gagged.

“I’m not sappy.” I totally was when it came to Paisley.

She snorted. “Bro, you were enamoured. It was disgusting.” Her nose scrunched like she’d smelled seafood, which she hated and also made her stop breathing. “But kinda cute in a weird way.”

And there was the unsentimental sister I knew and loved.

I didn’t reply. Mostly because I couldn’t bring myself to use the word enamoured in a sentence and because I knew she was right. Myles was a great guy and fit in the family like he’d always been a part of us. Which . . . in a way, he was. He, Cal, and I had been friends since fifth grade, and he practically lived at our house growing up.

Juliet was jaded about love for a while after her high school prom date humiliated her. She’d carried a torch for Myles for years, even if she hadn’t admitted it to us, but their age difference and life circumstances hadn’t allowed them to reconnect until about two years ago. Then it was a rush to the altar, but that was another story.

I had a hard time wrapping my mind around how they worked as a couple sometimes, but someone wiser than me once said, “Opposites attract.” And they were that. He softened her edges and she, well, she kept him sharp with that winning personality of hers.

Juliet’s smile turned wicked. “Speaking of . . . Mrs. Gulliver posted a very interesting video clip to The Vine.”

My blood froze. “She did not.”

“Oh, she did. I spit out my hot water when I was suddenly treated to the view of my brother with his tongue down my bestie’s throat.”

I ran a hand over my scruff. “It was not like that.”

“Uh-huh. Have you seen the video?” Juliet shuddered in horror, then rummaged through our fridge, emerging with a cold water bottle.

I hadn’t, but clearly I needed to fix that. “Why were you drinking hot water in the first place?” My sister survived on caffeine and sarcasm.

Juliet waved me off. “Myles likes it. Show of solidarity. Hey, is Mama bringing the tiramisu?”

Call me pathetic, but I took the boon she threw me in the way of a conversation shift. If she didn’t want to talk about it, who was I to pry? “Yeah, tomorrow, and whatever else Delilah Satterfield determines to be useful in the name of memory recovery. “

Juliet laughed, which was more of a honk. “I bet she’ll bring your baby pictures.”

“Paisley and I didn’t even know each other then. There’s no way that will help.”

Juliet cocked her head. “That’s it. Pictures. Your wedding. Your relationship. Maybe the pictures will help ground her. Think of the photoshoot Steph did with the two of you in April as part of her engagement ruse.”

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest, and listened. When Juliet was on a roll, you didn’t interrupt.

“It’s summer. This town loves to pull out the stops. Do all the things she loves about this place and maybe . . .” Juliet’s eyes drifted from mine, but not before I caught the shimmer of tears. What was going on with that? Her shoulders slumped. “Then maybe she’ll come back to us.”

To you were the unspoken words. Because Juliet already had a version of Paisley. The college version. I had nothing.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said gruffly. Standing, I stretched. “Sure you don’t want me to change the sheets so you can sleep on a real bed?”

Juliet scoffed. “I’m not sleeping in the same room as your fur baby who for all her cuteness will make me sneeze all night, and I’m not risking bunking with Paisley. The couch is fine.”

My sister was a notoriously restless sleeper, prone to kicking. Violently. Good thing she married a man with nerves of steel whose literal job was to dodge pucks flying ninety miles an hour.

“All right then. Good night.” Whistling for Rosie, I made my rounds, locking up for the night.

When I crawled into bed, the room felt oppressively empty. Paisley’s toothbrush wasn’t by the sink in the bathroom, and her glasses weren’t on her nightstand.

Most importantly, she wasn’t on her side of the bed with her nose in a book, telling me all about her latest theories for whatever plot twist she thought was coming. I stared at the framed photograph of the two of us on my nightstand. Slowly, I twisted the warm metal band around my left ring finger, its familiar presence grounding me. My chest spasmed with a deep, soul-crushing ache. Reaching out, I traced a finger over her face. My wife.

She was a world away on the other side of the wall.

The minute I poured my morning coffee, Juliet started hurling. Literally.

The last time I’d seen my sister run that fast was when our second oldest brother, Shane, chased her with a dead rabbit when she was in middle school. Then came the vomiting.