"Hey, Fiona. Emma said you needed a place to crash."
"Thanks," she said quietly. "I really appreciate it." She was planning on chipping in for rent, of course—she might be a mess, but she wasn’t going to be a freeloader.
He studied her face for a second—taking in whatever exhaustion and hurt she wasn't managing to hide—then nodded again. "I'm gonna go check the game," he said, disappearing into the living room with the kind of tact that suggested Emma had briefed him.
Emma waited until they heard the TV click on, then touched Fiona's arm gently. "Come on. I’ve given you a full day. You can tell me while I stir."
In the kitchen, Emma handed her a glass of wine and went back to the stove. Fiona perched on one of the mismatched stools at the counter, watching her little sister move around the familiar space.
"So," Emma said, not looking up from the pot. "What did the fuckhead do?"
Fiona almost choked on her wine. "Emma."
"What? I've been calling him that in my head since you showed up yesterday looking like someone had kicked your dog." She glanced over. "Was I wrong?"
Fiona stared down at her hands wrapped around the wine glass. The words felt too big, too humiliating to say out loud. Here she was, the older sister who was supposed to have her life figured out, running home to Emma like a teenager who'd gotten her heart broken at prom.
Emma, who had a real relationship with someone who actually respected her. Emma, who was younger but somehow wiser,who would never be stupid enough to trust someone so completely that she'd hand them ammunition to destroy her with.
Fiona was supposed to be the big sister, the one with answers. But she had thrown her whole life at the first man who'd made her feel special.
She'd met Dean in the most ordinary way—at a literacy event. He’d poured her a drink and asked her real questions while everyone else talked over each other.
He’d listened. Smiled like he meant it. Told her she was refreshing, like the world didn’t have enough softness in it anymore.
Fiona had fallen fast—because why wouldn’t she? He made her feel luminous, like her every dorky observation and open-hearted truth was a secret the world had been waiting to hear.
She hadn’t realized that loving her like that wasn’t the same as respecting her.
"He..." she started, then stopped. How do you tell your little sister that your husband thinks you're an idiot? That he's been proving it to the internet for two years? That maybe he's right?
She took a breath. "He's been posting about me. Online. Without telling me."
Emma's wooden spoon paused. "Posting what?"
"Things I say. Things I do. Private stuff." Fiona's voice got smaller. "Making fun of me."
The spoon clattered against the side of the pot. Emma turned around fully, her face shifting from confused to alarmed to furious in the span of three seconds.
"What do you mean making fun of you?"
Fiona couldn't meet her eyes. "There's this account. He's been... collecting stories. About me being dumb. Naive. All the embarrassing things I've told him, he's been posting them for people to laugh at."
"Jesus Christ, Fiona." Emma was staring at her with those wide, horrified eyes.
"And his friends all follow it. His coworkers. At the awards dinner...” Her voice cracked. "They've all been laughing at me this whole time."
Emma was quiet for a long moment, her hands gripping the edge of the counter.
Fiona could practically see her little sister putting the pieces together—all those times Fiona had talked about how "funny" Dean's friends were, how "clever" their conversations seemed.
She'd been the entertainment, the silly small-town girl performing for an audience that saw her as nothing more than a walking punchline.
"How long?" she asked finally.
"I don't know. I haven't looked. I can't." Fiona pressed her palms against her eyes. "I'm too embarrassed."
"Embarrassed?" Emma's voice was sharp. "Fiona, you didn't do anything wrong."
