The Side Effects of Marriage

Chapter 4

The vase on the coffee table was broken.

Layla had noticed it last night, after dinner, when Hayden had retreated into his home office and stayed there until well past midnight. Having plopped onto the couch to watch TV - maybe a cooking show or something mind-numbing on HGTV with couples who had absurd expectations of their future home despite their miniscule budgets - she'd caught the glint of glass in the moonlight.

Not just any glass, but broken glass. The crystal vase that Hayden's mother had given them for their second wedding anniversary lay in pieces on the white rug she'd picked out. Usually it was stocked with fake red roses because Hayden couldn't be bothered to water flowers, while she preferred to tend to succulents, not cut flowers that would only die in a week. Now, each silk petal was torn out and stood out against the white rug like drops of blood. The water must have dried, the water they both changed out in an effort to pretend something dead was alive.

Turning up the TV volume, she had fetched the vacuum cleaner and worn thick rubber gloves usually reserved for gardening, and thrown away each shard of glass and red petal before running the vacuum cleaner over the carpet until not a glitter of evidence remained. She didn't know why she'd cleaned it up like a crime, why she'd taken out the trash with her black hoodie pulled low over her face or washed her hands twice after. The vase wasn't even something she had broken or overturned.

Yet something about it felt wrong in the place. Theirs was a quiet household, devoid of fights and relatively free of disagreements, only a few tussles over which Netflix show to watch or where to go on their exceedingly rare vacations. Hayden was quiet when she needed space, and loud and outgoing when the social situation called for it. He listened when she told him about her day and cooked dinner without being asked to and took out the trash every Tuesday.

But the vase felt like a sign of something else. Something broken within them that they'd struggled to hide. She would perpetuate that illusion for the two of them, that image of wholeness, that hologram of perfection, for as long as she could. As long as they could.

Just as she had pulled open the living room curtains, only half-dressed for work in a pair of slacks and a pajama top with satin piping but tired of the cloaking darkness, the doorbell rang. Gulping down her half-empty mug of coffee, Layla threw on a light jacket; one of Hayden's that he'd left draped on the couch, despite the infinite number of times she'd asked him to hang it up. She wondered who it could be at this hour. It was only eight, and everyone knew--or so she'd thought--that etiquette dictated people should only call between the hours of nine am and nine pm.

When she opened the front door, however, all her questions were answered. Only a criminal would be awake early enough to pay social visits before noon.

"I'm Amy," her sister said, carrying a foil-covered tray and wearing a smile... and an apron patterned with lemons. "I'm new to the neighbourhood. I live down the street from you guys, in the house with the weeping willow."

Layla took a moment to process the vision in front of her: Her sister's tattoos and piercings were covered up in what looked like a Stepford wives dress: puff-sleeved, retro, flared, and patterned with cherries. If one paid close attention, they could see the tail of her cat tattoo peeking out beneath one sleeve. Her mouth bore a coat of red lipstick that looked eerily close to blood. The pearls around her neck looked like plastic, not real.

Everything about her appearance was just a little too much, a little too off, to be perfect. She had put on a mask, but it didn't seem to fit right.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

Amara gave a quiet laugh, popping her lime-green bubblegum. Another flaw in her disguise. "I'm just being nice, as your new neighbour."

What kind of game was her sister playing? Whatever it was, it made her tense up like nothing else, every second spent in her presence making her feel like a ticking time bomb.