Free Rules for Life by Darlene Ryan

feel—uncomfortable and uncertain. I had to clear my throat twice before I could get a thank-you out.
    â€œI’ll see you downstairs,” Anne said. “Thanks for doing those buttons.”
    I stopped at the top of the stairs and lifted the lid of the flower box. Under the tissue paper was a little bouquet of peach and white roses. My favorites.
    The steps shimmered through the tears I was suddenly having trouble holding back. I pressed one cold hand against my face and took some deep breaths. Then I started down.
    Rafe and his parents had arrived, along with a bunch of people from the show. “Isabelle, you look lovely,” Rafe’s mom said, hugging me.
    â€œHey, gorgeous,” Rafe said. He squeezed my hand, hard. I wished I could have just kept holding on to him.
    After that, everything was a blur of words and movement and a fake smile on my face that made my cheeks ache. For the ceremony, Jason and I stood behind Dad. Peter stood next to him.
    The minister, a friend of Anne’s, stood in front of the fireplace in a long white robe with a blue sash embroidered in gold around her neck. It struck me that her smile was the only one that seemed real.
    I concentrated on the sound of the minister’s warm, husky voice and tried not to listen to her actual words. But I heard the part about anyone objecting. “Let them speak now, or forever hold their peace,” she warned. It was as though she was reminding me, “You can’t change it now.”
    Dad took Anne’s hand. The minister looked at Jason. He stepped forward, leaned over and kissed Anne’s cheek and laid his hand on top of theirs.
    The minister looked at me. I took three steps and put my hand over Jason’s. He reached up with his thumb and gave it a squeeze.
    â€œThose whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder,” the minister said.
    With those words our old family was undone and Dad and Anne were married.

16
    They were arguing. Not the screaming, throwing things kind of arguing. This was arguing with low, tight voices. I dropped my pack in the hall and stood in the doorway to the living room. Neither Dad nor Anne had heard me come in. They were standing in front of the fireplace.
    I’d spent almost no time at home in the last month and a half. I didn’t plan it that way. It’s just how it worked out. And all my conversations with Dad—which meant the ones I couldn’t avoid—were made up of words with less than two syllables. “How are things?” “Fine.” “Do you need any money?” “No.”
    Anne and I pretty much stayed out of each other’s way, except that we always ate breakfast together, me with my cereal and Anne with her dry toast and orange juice. It wasn’t my idea. That first morning I came down and she was already at the table. I could feel the awkwardness between us; it was as though there wasn’t enough space in the kitchen for both of us. But as the mornings passed I got used to it.
    After the first morning there was always a bowl and spoon sitting on top of the microwave for me. We’d sit across from each other and she never tried to talk. I guess she knew that rule. But she always said “Have a good day” as she passed my chair to rinse her dishes in the sink.
    â€œI don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Dad was saying.
    Anne sighed and rested one hand on the bump of her belly. “I just think there’s room for both pictures,” she said.
    â€œI’m not going to put Susan’s picture in the basement, Anne. I just want to move it somewhere else.”
    â€œMarc, how long has Susan’s picture been on that mantel?”
    Dad ran his hands back through his hair. Bad sign. “I don’t know. Since … I don’t know.”
    â€œHow do you think Jason and Isabelle will feel, all of a sudden finding that their mother’s picture has been stuck off in a corner