Not that he wanted her to. If there was one thing Regan would willingly say about herself, it was that she was an ornament, a novelty, a party trick. She was the center of attention when she wished to be, quick-witted and charming and impeccably dressed, but those types of girls grew dull when there were no eccentricities or blemishes. The world loved to take a beautiful woman and exclaim at the charm of her single imperfection; Marilyn Monroe’s mole, or Audrey Hepburn’s malnutrition. It was the same reason Marc took no issue with Regan’s past. He didn’t mind that she had once required reinvention; she doubted he’d take an interest in her if he couldn’t elevate himself with her flaws.
“You’ve been getting along lately, then?”
“Yes,” Regan said. “We’re fine.”
They always got along, because getting along required the least of their energy. Marc would consider a fight to be a poor use of his time. He liked to smile at Regan when she argued, preferring to let her tire herself out.
“And your family?” the psychiatrist asked.
Regan’s phone had contained two voicemails: one from her psychiatrist asking if she could come to her session an hour earlier （she hadn’t received it and had come at her usually scheduled time, it was fine, nobody died）， and one from her sister, earlier that evening.
“I know you won’t get this for like, a month,” Madeline said, “but Mom and Dad want you home for their anniversary party. Just let me know if you’re bringing someone, okay? Seriously, that’s all I need. Just text me back a number. One or two, but zero is not acceptable. And don’t just send me a cryptic series of gifs again, it’s not as funny as you think. Are you going to wear that wrap dress you just bought? Because I was going t-ah, hang on, Carissa wants to speak to you.” A pause. “Honey, you can’t tell me you want to speak to Auntie Charlotte and then refuse.” Another pause. “Sweetheart, please, Mommy is very tired right now and you’re going to lose your good behavior stickers. Do you want to talk to Auntie Charlotte or not?” A long pause, and then a shrill giggle. A sigh, “Okay, fine, whatever. Carissa misses you. Though, I can’t believe I have to say this, but please do not buy her more chewing gum, that peanut butter trick only does so much. God, she’s just like you as a kid, I swear. Alright, bye Char.”
Regan thought about Carissa Easton, who was probably wearing a lace headband, perhaps with bows, and a velvet dress whose washing instructions demanded dry cleaning; not simply ‘dry clean,’ which was simply the best method, but ‘dry clean only,’ which was the exclusive method, and which was a distinction that Madeline Easton, nèe Regan, would know.
THE NARRATOR: In reality, Carissa was not much like Regan. Her mother adored her, for one thing, and she was an only child, or at least a future oldest child. Carissa would be more like Madeline one day, which was precisely why Regan made a point to send her chewing gum.
“They’re doing very well,” Regan said. “My parents are having an anniversary party next month.”
“Oh?” asked the psychiatrist. “How many years?”
“Forty,” Regan said.
“That’s very impressive. It must be very beneficial to have such a stable relationship in your life.”
THE NARRATOR: Regan’s parents had slept in separate bedrooms since she was ten years old. In Regan’s opinion, marriage was very easy to do if you simply operated in totally separate spheres. If she were to chart her parents as a Venn diagram, the only three things in the center would be money, Madeline’s achievements, and what should be done about Regan.
“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Regan said. “They’re made for each other.”
“Is your sister married?”
“Yes. To another doctor.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize your sister was a doctor.”
“She is. A pediatric surgeon.”
“Oh.” It was an Oh, how impressive, as it usually was.
“Yes, she’s very smart,” Regan said.
Sibling rivalry was nothing new, though Regan didn’t exactly feel the need to disparage her sister. It wasn’t Madeline’s fault she’d been the more pleasing daughter.
Regan touched her garnet earrings, thinking about what she’d say when she called her sister back. The last thing she wanted was to bring Marc home, and certainly not for this party. Her parents hated him, but not in a fun way, and certainly not from a place of concern. They hated him because they didn’t particularly like Regan, either, but also there was a very palpable sense—to Regan, anyway—that their opinion fell somewhere along the lines of: At least Marc is sufficiently rich. He wasn’t after her for her money, and that, they exhaled, was a relief.