Part 2My Sister Loved My Boyfriend First

A violent wave of nausea hit me, rising from the pit of my stomach. I threw myself over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving onto the carpet, but nothing came up. Just bile and a suffocating, hollow ache.

When our parents died in that highway pileup, I was eight and Delia was thirteen. It was Delia who attended my parent-teacher conferences, Delia who learned how to French-braid my hair, Delia who sat on the bathroom floor with me when I got my first period, gently explaining what to do. While other kids called out for their mothers when they fell, I only ever called for Delia. When I introduced her to Ted, I had been practically shaking with the need for her approval, because to me, she wasn't just my sister. She was my mother, my protector, my entire world.

And now, the two people I loved most in this life had built a quiet, secret world of their own behind my back. It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and physically torn my heart in half. I curled into a tight ball on the hotel bed, unable to do anything but sob into the pillows.

The online thread was gaining traction rapidly, the comment section descending into a frenzy of outrage.

"This is repulsive. You seduced your own sister's boyfriend and now you're playing the victim? You're sick."

"I feel so bad for the sister. Betrayed by her own blood and the man she loved. I can't even imagine the pain."

"If you can't control yourself, maybe you shouldn't exist. And the guy is absolute trash."

Underneath almost every vicious comment, Ted’s burner account had replied.

"She is in agony. She hates herself more than any of you ever could. You have no right to judge her."

"Call me trash if you want. I am. But even as trash, I will protect her."

"If I had met her first, she’s the one I would have chosen."

The original poster had updated the thread just a minute ago:

"You're all right. I'm disgusting. I'm vile. I'm going to cut him off. I can't lose my sister."

The phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Just hours ago, I had been counting down the minutes until my flight, giddy with anticipation. Now, the thought of seeing them made me feel entirely paralyzed. Outside, the Chicago skyline blazed with indifferent lights. I didn't sleep a single wink.

After hours of silent torment, I finally dragged my suitcase to the airport. Right on cue, a text from Delia popped up:

"Meg, I'm waiting for you at the arrivals gate."

A minute before boarding, Ted’s message arrived:

"Safe flight, Meg. Can't wait to see you."

It was his first text since our brief, strained call the previous afternoon. Normally, he would have called me thirty minutes before my alarm to make sure I was awake. He would have nagged me about my ID, my charger, and whether I’d eaten breakfast, flooding my phone with updates all the way to the gate. Now, just a single, hollow sentence.

I didn't reply. I switched off my phone and closed my eyes as the engines roared to life.

When the plane touched down, I walked through the arrivals gate and saw them. They were standing about six feet apart, looking like polite strangers. Delia’s makeup was heavier than usual, concealing any trace of tears. That was her signature move—never letting anyone see her bleed, not even me.

Ted didn’t rush forward to engulf me in a hug like he usually did. Instead, he forced a tight, practiced smile and pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

"Welcome home, Megan."

But as he held them out, the air between us turned to ice. Both Delia and I froze. He was holding white roses.

My sister’s favorite.