Matching Divorces with My Sister

Grant Whitaker usually showed up in the business news next to earnings reports and merger headlines. That morning, he was splashed across the gossip pages next to Vanessa Hart, the ex everyone still called his first love.

The picture had been taken in Milan. Vanessa leaned toward him at a restaurant table, her face tilted up, while Grant seemed to be smiling at her. They looked like the only two people in the room.

Claire stared at the photo for several minutes. She sat perfectly still at the breakfast table, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee that had gone cold.

Then she turned her phone toward me.

"Mia, I'm divorcing Grant. What about you?"

"I'm divorcing Cole."

I didn't need time to think.

Claire studied me, like she was waiting for the punchline. "Cole isn't in the photo."

"I know."

"You know your marriage and mine are two separate things, right?"

"Legally, yes. Emotionally, no."

That made perfect sense to me. Judging by Claire's face, it took her a second.

She called a lawyer friend and asked her to draw up divorce papers. She didn't cry. When Claire got hurt, she just got quieter, and her face gave nothing away.

The article kept updating while we sat there. First came a second photo, then a caption about Grant's "unfinished first love", then an anonymous source saying the reunion was always going to happen. None of the photos showed the whole table. It didn't matter. Everyone already knew how the story of Grant and Vanessa was supposed to end.

Claire read every line once. She didn't touch the comments.

"He knew what she means to the press," she said. "If he was going to sit at the same table as her, he should have told me before somebody else did."

That was what hurt her most. Grant traveled constantly and kept his schedule to himself. Claire had put up with it because she believed he would never make her look like a fool. Now half the city was looking at that photo and feeling sorry for her.

I reached for her hand. She squeezed my fingers and let go almost at once, already moving on to the next step.

"Pack your documents and anything you can't replace," she said. "I'll handle the rest."

I followed her upstairs.

Packing should have been simple. It wasn't. Every month, Grant put $150,000 of spending money into each of our accounts, Cole's included. Cole sent half of his to me, which meant $225,000 landed in my account every month.

I barely touched it. Grant covered the household bills, and when we went shopping, we used the card he'd given Claire. After two years of marriage, I had millions sitting in savings.

Cole liked cars, parties, and expensive hobbies. The tabloids called him a trust-fund playboy. At home, he was the little brother Grant complained about and kept paying for anyway. Cole called the two of us Grant's favorite charity cases, and he sounded proud of it.

Claire and I had settled happily into life as rich, idle wives, though Claire secretly worked more than anyone knew.

I climbed the stairs behind her and tried to feel sad about leaving the money, the house, and the private chefs.

Mostly, I wondered where we would eat dinner.