My husband asked me to “lend” my sister for his reunion—just one night, he said.

That part never came.

“You told your friends you married my sister,” I repeated slowly, making sure I understood the words coming out of his mouth.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, picking his fork back up like we were done discussing this. “It was easier than explaining. And honestly, babe, you know how those guys are. They’re shallow. They remember Nikki being hot and they’ve spent ten years thinking I locked that down. I can’t show up with someone different and explain that actually I married the other one.”

The other one.

I’d graduated top of my class at law school. I’d made partner at thirty-three. I’d bought us this house, the cars in our driveway, and every piece of furniture Damen was currently sitting on. And I was the other one.