Page 107 of The Wrong Sister
As I’m looking through the pieces of clothing and touching them with my hands, I wonder if he knows me better than I do. Or is it this mysterious Martin? The hidden figure like Zorro, helping the King brothers along the way. Whoever it is, I feel seen for the first time in many years. If ever. And this is because of Ezra.
After a quick run-through of my new closet, I get a headache from so many options, so I quickly throw together the first things that come to my hand. It’s a pink flowy skirt with a white off-shoulder sweater—a piece of my tattoo is peeking out on my arm—fishnet tan tights, and pink combat boots, which look absolutely adorable.
To finish the look, I take a black puffy jacket to put on later. It’s unusually warm for mid-October, and I’d probably be fine with something thinner. But remembering how cold I was earlier this month in my revitalized cardigan makes the doubt about choosing the outerwear disappear in the blink of an eye—the warmer, the better.
When I come to the mirror, I get a pleasant surprise. The person looking back at me seems more like me than I ever was. I pile my hair on the top in a messy bun and let a few strands around my face loose. A tan-colored tiny backpack finishes my outfit, even though I don’t have anything to putin there besides a new lipstick or something that Ezra bought for me.
When I go to the kitchen, I find something I can definitely throw in my backpack. On the kitchen island, right where we played our games yesterday, lies a black credit card with my name on it. I could cry out about being an independent woman who doesn’t need one man’s money. But I’m not independent yet. And I do need his money. So I stash the card in my bag, grateful to Ezra for thinking about that.
Next to the card, there’s a phone. I take it, assuming it’s now mine. No one will find me complaining about that because, quite honestly, I missed having the ability to Google things when I need to. Having a flip phone reminded me how to use my brain and not rely on technology so much, but I missed that wonderful time when I didn’t need to use my brain and could just Google the bus schedule.
I tap the screen, and it lights up, asking for a password. Well, that’s a pickle. Maybe the phone isn’t really mine. Just out of curiosity, I decide to try something and press ten-ten. The home screen instantly lights up on the phone. Ezra used our wedding date as a passcode. He’s turning out to be a total marshmallow.
I pull up the contacts and find three names in there: George, Martin, and Husband. Feeling warmth spreading through my chest, I eat breakfast at the kitchen island, enjoying this new feeling I’m not familiar with: happiness.
Then, I decide to look around the apartment and see how I can make this place better. I mean, it’s my home now too. Why not?
A quick walkthrough tells me everything I need to know: I’ve got a lot of work to do. To my utter shame, I pause in Ezra’s room. His bed is unmade. No wonder—he doesn’t strike me as the type to make his own bed. He probably haspeople come over here and do it for him. No judgment—if I could afford it, I’d be doing it too.
Should I just lie in his bed? Like for a second. It looks so comfortable.
Why not?I crawl on top of it. Looks like he sleeps on the left side of the bed, so I move to the right side, pretending this is where I’m supposed to be.
As I close my eyes and let out a loud groan of pleasure, a female voice cries out. “Dios mío! I’m so sorry!”
I jump up, startled. A woman in a black uniform in her late forties is gawking at me from the door. She just apologized for startling me, and yet, she’s not leaving. Instead, she keeps staring at me with a wide open mouth.
I crawl off the bed and try to get myself together.
“Hello?” I half ask.
“I’m so sorry. You must be the new Mrs. King. I mean the only Mrs. King. Besides the old Mrs. King.” Her cheeks turn red. “I mean not old, but the elder one.”
I chuckle. “Stop. Don’t worry. I’m Maeve.” I walk up to her to offer her a hand. “But yes, Maeve King.”
“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes once again. “They told me Mrs. King will be here, but when she’s here, she’s in the guest bedroom, you know. I didn’t expect her to be here.” She waves at me and at the bed, making me laugh. Because no, I don’t know. “It’s just,” she continues, “I’ve never seen anyone but Mr. King and the old Mrs. King,” she pales, “I mean the mother King. The other King.” The more she talks, theredder her cheeks become.
“Please, don’t be so scared. I was homeless a month ago, so don’t feel like you have to treat me any different. I don’t belong to this world, you know.”
She blinks. Then blinks again.
“What did you mean when you said you didn’t expect anyone here?”
The woman looks around and then turns to me with a suddenly mischievous smile on her face. “I mean,” she sounds surer of herself, “I’ve never seen a woman here.”
“In his bed?”
She lowers her voice. “In his place.”
I smile at her with narrowed eyes. “How long have you been working for him?”
“Almost five years.”
“And you’ve never seen anyone here?”
She leans closer to me. “No one.” Her eyes sparkle. “But I’m glad he’s got one of us for a wife. You know, simple people. About time someone showed him how to be human.”
I rear back in mock horror. “Is he unfair?”
