PART 1 — THE DISH
Ten years married. Two children. I would have put my hand in a fire for Callan Wick.
My sister Sasha had been putting her hand in the fire for him since 2016.
At least, that was what I believed at the time.
She used to say things like, “How did you end up with somebody like Callan? I’m jealous. I want one.”
Always with a laugh at the end.
Always just enough laughter to make objecting look ridiculous.
If I frowned, she would grin.
If I told her to stop, she’d throw her hands up.
“Oh, Bryony. I’m joking.”
And because she was my sister, I kept giving her the benefit of the doubt.
I wish I hadn’t.
When she married Bram Prewitt in the September before last, I was relieved.
Bram was a good man.
Quiet.
Patient.
The sort of man who remembered what tea you drank and whether you liked the crusts cut off your sandwiches.
He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t dominate a room. He didn’t need everyone to notice him.
Most importantly, he was completely mad about Sasha.
I thought she had finally found something of her own.
Something that wasn’t mine.
Something she couldn’t compare herself to.
