“He’s your husband, Amanda. He’s not some teenage boy who’s never seen a woman before.”
“I know.”
“So what exactly is the issue?”
“The issue is that it makes me uncomfortable.”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m asking you not to do it in my house because it makes me uncomfortable.”
She studied my face like she expected some deeper explanation.
Then she shrugged.
“Fine.”
I assumed the conversation was finished.
The next morning, she appeared in the kitchen wearing the towel again.
Bare feet.
Wet hair.
Completely unbothered.
Then she asked Andrew whether there was more coffee.
That was the morning Andrew picked up his mug and walked out.
And when she asked what his problem was, I finally told her.
“You.”
She stirred sugar into her coffee as though nothing had happened.
“I asked you to stop doing this,” I said.
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Kayla leaned against the counter.
“And I still don’t understand why you care this much.”
“You don’t need to understand.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You just need to respect what I’m asking. This is my house.”
“So you’re actually threatened by me walking around in a towel?”
“No.”
“Because if you trusted Andrew—”
“Kayla.”
She slowly sipped her coffee.
“I’m just saying this sounds more like a husband problem than a towel problem.”
“No. This is a sister-who-refuses-to-respect-a-boundary problem.”
That made her smile.
Not kindly.
It was a small, almost satisfied smile.
Then she said something I still couldn’t believe came out of her mouth.
“Think of it as a test.”
I stared at her.
“A what?”
“A test.”
She said it calmly, as though she were explaining something completely reasonable.
“If Andrew can be tempted just because another woman walks through the kitchen in a towel, wouldn’t you rather find that out now?”
I genuinely thought I must have misunderstood her.
“You are deliberately trying to tempt my husband?”
“No.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m not trying to tempt him. I’m testing whether he can be tempted. There’s a difference.”
“Not as much of one as you seem to think.”
“If he fails,” she continued, “that’s his fault. Not mine. I’m literally just existing. If your marriage can’t survive a towel, then maybe the marriage is the problem.”
I stared at my sister.
This was the girl whose scraped knees I had cleaned when we were children.
