Page 10 of It Should Have Been You

She shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’ve just come off a week of night shifts.”

She usually has no problem sleeping after a grueling shift.

She fiddles with the towel before wiping a drop of batter from the counter.

She does it again.

And again.

Then she performs the ultimate tell—she tucks her hair behind her ear, tilts her head, and puckers her lips.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Still no eye contact.

“You are a such a bad liar. Out with it.”

Nothing but a lip chewed half to death.

“Kim, I swear I will fight you for answers. What is—”

“I slept with Damon.”

I grip the sides of the chair, her confession almost knocking me off the edge. My eyes must be so wide they’re on the verge of popping out of my head.

“Damon?”

She nods with her eyes closed and shifts from one foot to the other. A timer dings somewhere. We both ignore it. Some things are more important than brownies.

Very little, but some things.

“As in Damon with the massive—”

She cuts me off by letting out something resembling a moan.

“The priest? Our neighbor? That Damon?”

Her lips bite together, and I’m not sure if the scrunch of her eyes is embarrassment or a sense of victory.

She’s been crushing on him since we moved here.

“What about Eric?”

I blink, unmoving, wondering what I have to do to make my life a fraction as interesting as my sisters. Truth is, there's been little to no action in my life since I graduated and started my internship at the law firm. That combined with being a photographer for events, my schedule has consisted of sleep, eat, work.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

“Rebound?” It’s more of a question than a statement.

Damon isn’t a real priest. He’s not even a pretend priest. It’s the nickname we gave him because our walls are thin, and we hear every woman he has in there. They call for God so often we’re convinced he’s performing exorcisms or very violent confessions. And we only know about Damon’s massive penis because the women like to scream about it. I would be curious to find out if they’re exaggerating, but he also likes to wear grey sweatpants while running… loose sweatpants.

Those women are not exaggerating.

“When?” I ask, still trying to process.

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