“You don’t have to understand.”
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“I asked you to stop.”
“You’re seriously threatened by me wearing a towel?”
“No.”
“Because if you trust Andrew…”
“Kayla…”
She took a sip.
“I’m just saying, this sounds like a husband problem, not a towel problem.”
“No. It’s a you-ignoring-me problem.”
“This sounds like a husband problem.”
That made her smile.
Not a nice smile.
“Honestly? Think of it as a test.”
I stared at
her.
“A what?”
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“A test.”
She set down her mug.
“If Andrew can be tempted because another woman walks through the kitchen in a towel, wouldn’t you rather know now?”
“Think of it as a test.”
I thought I’d misheard her.
“You’re deliberately trying to tempt my husband?”
“No.” She said it as though I were being ridiculous. “I’m seeing whether he can be tempted.”
“Those are not as different as you think.”
“If he fails, that’s on him.”
“You’re deliberately trying to tempt my husband?”
I folded my arms.
“And if I ask my sister to stop doing something in my home?”
Kayla rolled her eyes.
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“You’re making this way bigger than it is.”
Kayla rolled her eyes.
***
That evening, I told Andrew.
He was loading the dishwasher.
For several seconds, the only sound was plates sliding into the rack.
Finally he said, “She actually used the word ‘test’?”
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“Twice.”
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I told Andrew.
Andrew pushed the lower rack in.
“I’ll stay out of it.”
“Why?”
“She’s your sister.”
At the time, that sounded reasonable.
Three days later, I understood why it wasn’t.
“She’s your sister.”
***
Sunday morning, I was buttering toast when I heard Kayla coming downstairs.
Andrew sat at the table with his coffee.
She appeared in the doorway.
Same towel.
Same bare feet.
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Same complete refusal to care that I’d asked her to stop.
She appeared in the doorway.
I put down the knife.
“Kayla…”
Andrew touched my wrist.
“Hang on.”
I looked at him.
He stood and carried his mug to the counter.
“Let me answer this one.”
“Hang on.”
Kayla smiled.
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“Finally!”
Andrew leaned against the counter.
“You’ve been calling this a test all week, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Good.”
He took out his phone.
“Congratulations, Kayla. You passed.”
He took out his phone.
Two weeks earlier, Kayla
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had arrived at our door with two suitcases, $287 in her checking account, and mascara dried beneath both eyes.
Her boyfriend of six years had told her to leave their apartment.
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I hadn’t asked whether she could afford a hotel.
Kayla had arrived at our door.
I hadn’t told her to call friends first.
I’d taken one suitcase while Andrew took the other.
“Stay here until you get back on your feet,” I’d told her.
Andrew had agreed before I’d even finished the sentence.
I hadn’t told her to call friends first.
For the first week, Kayla was an easy houseguest.
Then came the towel.
The first morning, I assumed she’d forgotten Andrew was downstairs.
The second time, I pulled her aside.
“Could you put on a robe before coming down? Andrew’s usually in the kitchen.”
I assumed she’d forgotten Andrew was downstairs.
Kayla blinked at me.
“He’s your husband,
Amanda, not a teenage boy.”
“I know.”
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“Then what’s the problem?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
She studied my face as though I’d presented her with a puzzle.
Then she shrugged.
“Fine.”
Except the next morning, she did it again.
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
***
Now Andrew was upstairs, and Kayla was stirring sugar into her coffee like nothing had happened.
“I asked you to stop,” I snapped.
She leaned against the counter.
“And I don’t understand why you care.”
