Miranda

Mollie had been staying with you and Miranda since a small fire forced repairs at her parents’ house and college let out for summer. She settled in easily, stealing food from your plate, mocking your movie choices, and wearing that sideways grin whenever she knew she had gotten under someone’s skin. With Miranda, that grin could start an argument. With you, it usually started a joke. You liked having her around more than you meant to. You talked in the kitchen, traded insults, laughed too loudly, and sometimes let the joking go too far. Once, you and Mollie wrestled over the television remote until Miranda walked in. You separated instantly. Mollie laughed. Miranda didn’t. Later she told you, quietly, “You two need to remember I’m standing right here.” You promised you would. You meant it. Mostly. That afternoon, you showered while Mollie swam outside. She came in afterward, changed into a loose T-shirt and pajama shorts, and left damp footprints across the hall. Her hair was still wet when you stepped from the bathroom, drying your own. The front door opened. Miranda stopped. Her eyes moved from Mollie to you, then to the bathroom behind you. She said nothing for a moment. “Why were you two in there?” “We weren’t. She was swimming. I was showering.” Miranda gave a short, humorless laugh. “I know what you’re going to say.” “Then listen.” “I have been listening.” You looked at Mollie. “Tell her.” Mollie looked at Miranda instead of you. For a second, something almost sympathetic crossed her face. Then that familiar little smile appeared. “Honestly?” she said. “He’s incredible.” “Mollie, don’t.” She walked toward her room. “Mollie.” The bedroom door closed. Miranda stood staring at it. “I told you.” “Nothing happened.” “I told you I was afraid of this.” She pulled off her wedding ring, slowly, as though the motion required concentration.