Tangled Vows

The first time I noticed Nikki looking at me, I was elbow-deep in dishwater, wearing Stella's old college sweatshirt with a hole in the left armpit, and I had mascara smeared under one eye from a nap I hadn't meant to take.

Not exactly the version of myself I'd want frozen in someone's memory.

But there she was, leaned against the kitchen doorframe with a mug of tea she'd made without asking, watching me with this expression I couldn't name. Not quite a smile. Something quieter than that. Her sister's eyes, which meant the same shade of green, but softer somehow. Less certain.

"You don't have to do those," she said. "I can get them in the morning."

"They'll smell by morning."

"They're just dishes, Angela."

I remember thinking it was strange, the way she said my name. Like it was a full sentence. Stella said it like punctuation, quick and functional, the way you'd say *pass the salt* or *lock the door*. Nikki said it like she was tasting something.

That was three weeks ago. I've been thinking about it ever since, which is its own kind of problem.

Here's what you need to know about my marriage: it's good. Not perfect, because nothing is, but good in the way that matters. Stella works sixty hours a week at a hospital downtown, comes home smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion, and still finds the energy to kiss me before she takes off her shoes. I teach fourth grade at a public school where half the kids don't have pencils and the other half don't have parents who check their backpacks. We're tired. We're busy. We're in love.

At least, I thought we were. I still think we are. That's the part that keeps me up at night.

Nikki moved in six months ago because her apartment had mold and her landlord was a piece of shit who wouldn't fix it. Stella didn't even ask me first. She just called me from the hospital one night and said, "Nikki's staying with us for a while," and I said okay because what else was I supposed to say? She's family. Stella's little sister, twenty-three years old, fresh out of art school with a degree in something impractical and a smile that made people want to give her things.

I didn't mind. I like Nikki. I've always liked her. She's funny in a dry way that sneaks up on you, and she draws these incredible little sketches on napkins and leaves them around the house like tiny gifts. A bird. A flower. Once, a perfect rendering of our cat, Miso, sleeping in a sunbeam. I still have that one taped to the fridge.

But something shifted. I can't tell you exactly when. Maybe it was the night Stella fell asleep on the couch at eight o'clock and Nikki and I stayed up watching a movie neither of us was paying attention to. Maybe it was the morning she came out of the bathroom in just a towel, wet hair dripping down her shoulders, and said "sorry" in a voice that didn't sound sorry at all. Maybe it was the way she started finding excuses to touch me. A hand on my back when she squeezed past me in the hallway. Fingers brushing mine when she handed me a coffee. Small things. Things you could explain away if you wanted to.

I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

---

The afternoon everything changed, Stella was working a double. She'd left before dawn, kissed me on the forehead, and whispered something about leftovers in the fridge. I'd mumbled something back. I don't remember what.

I spent the morning grading papers, red pen bleeding across mediocre book reports about *Charlotte's Web*. By noon, I'd given up and made myself a sandwich I didn't eat. By two, I was on the couch with Miso purring on my chest, half-watching a home renovation show where everyone had perfect teeth and unlimited budgets.

Nikki came home around three. I heard the front door open, the jingle of her keys hitting the bowl by the entrance, the soft pad of her feet on the hardwood.

"You're still in pajamas," she said.

I opened one eye. She was standing in the living room doorway, wearing paint-stained jeans and a cropped t-shirt that showed a sliver of stomach. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and there was a smudge of blue paint on her cheekbone.

"It's Sunday," I said.

"It's Wednesday."

I sat up, dislodging Miso, who gave me a look of profound betrayal before stalking off. "It's not."

"It is. You've been home sick for two days. Stella told me."

Right. I'd forgotten. The fever had broken that morning, but I'd still felt like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Stella had kissed me goodbye and told me to rest. I'd promised I would.

Nikki crossed the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing me. Her knees almost touched mine. Almost.

"You look better," she said.

"I feel like death."

"You look better than death." She tilted her head, studying me with those green eyes. "You have color in your cheeks now."

I laughed, but it came out weird. Nervous. "That's the fever."

"Sure."

She didn't move. Neither did I. The renovation show played on, some couple arguing about granite countertops, but the sound felt very far away. I could smell her shampoo. Something citrusy. Something that made me think of summer.

"Nikki."

"Yeah?"

"You're sitting very close."

"I know."

I should have said something else. I should have stood up, made a joke, retreated to my room. That's what a good wife would have done. That's what a person with any sense of self-preservation would have done.

Instead, I just sat there, watching her watch me.

"I like your pajamas," she said.

They were old. Flannel. Covered in little cartoon cats. "They're ridiculous."

"They're cute." She reached out and touched the collar, her fingers brushing my collarbone. "You're cute."

My heart was doing something strange. Beating too fast, then too slow, then too fast again. I felt like I was standing at the edge of something, a cliff or a wave or a decision, and I couldn't tell if I was about to fall or jump.

"Nikki, I'm married to your sister."

"I know."

"To your *sister*."

"I know." She pulled her hand back, but she didn't look away. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm just saying what I see."

"And what do you see?"

She smiled then. Not the dry, funny smile I was used to. Something softer. Something sad.

"I see someone who's been taking care of everyone else for so long, she forgot what it feels like to be looked at." She stood up, and for a second I thought she was going to leave. But she just stood there, looking down at me, her shadow falling across my lap. "Stella's lucky. I hope she knows that."

Then she walked to her room and closed the door, and I sat on the couch for a long time, listening to my own breathing, feeling like I'd just survived something.

Or missed something.

I couldn't tell which.

---

Stella came home at nine. She was tired and hungry and complaining about a patient who'd yelled at her for twenty minutes about a parking validation. I made her a plate of leftovers and sat across from her at the kitchen table, nodding in all the right places, asking all the right questions.

"You okay?" she asked, mid-sentence, fork hovering over her pasta. "You're quiet."

"Just tired."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Thanks for being here. For handling things with Nikki. I know it's a lot."

"It's not."

"She's been through a rough year. The mold thing, the breakup, all of it. I worry about her."

"I know."

"She looks up to you, you know. She told me that once. Said she wished she could find someone like you."

I pulled my hand back and picked up my water glass. My throat felt tight. "She's young. She'll figure it out."

Stella smiled and went back to her pasta, and I sat there with my heart hammering in my chest, thinking about the way Nikki had looked at me. The way she'd said my name. The way she'd touched my collar, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I didn't sleep that night. I lay next to my wife, listening to her breathe, staring at the ceiling, and I made a decision.

I was going to be careful. I was going to keep my distance. I was going to pretend that afternoon had never happened.

That's what I told myself, anyway.

But when I finally drifted off, just before dawn, I dreamed of citrus and blue paint and a voice saying *you're cute* like it was a secret worth keeping.