Trading Up

"Mark is Mr. Perfect. But not for me. He's Mr. Perfect for you."

For the second time that evening, Heather wondered if her jaw had actually detached and fell to the floor or if it just felt like it. "See? I knew it. You did lose your marbles."

"No, no. Follow me here a second."

"Teri, this is—"

"Shush. Now think for a second. Mark is hot; I know you think so. But you guys are made for each other. Hello? You work long hours. He works long hours. You're a homebody—no offense—and he's a homebody."

"Teri—"

"I know he thinks you're hot. It's perfect."

"What?"

"What, what?"

"What makes you think he thinks I'm hot?"

"He told me."

"What? He told you?"

"Don't be so surprised, sis. You look like me." Except they didn't. Theresa was a cup size larger and three jean sizes smaller. While they looked like sisters, a side-by-side comparison was not fair to Heather.

"He said I was hot?"

"Well, not in those exact words."

"That's what I thought."

"No, no. I forget how it came up, but he said something like you were really pretty."

"Pretty?" Heather had to admit, she wanted to believe it. But it changed nothing—he was her sister's boyfriend.

"Really pretty." Theresa corrected her, and Heather felt her cheeks flush with warmth. How strange it was that one tiny adverb of emphasis turned a compliment into a treasured endearment.

"Okay, well, whatever."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Do you want him?"

"What? You want to give me your boyfriend?" Heather's pulse quickened and a fever kindled deep down inside at the very thought.

"I'm going to leave him anyway; I'm giving you first shot at him."

Heather stared at her sister a long moment, sighed, and then drummed her fingers along the counter. "I bet it doesn't even occur to you how insane you sound right now."