I'll never know if my sister lost her mind and her virginity all at once or on separate occasions. I'll never know which went first. I don't want to.

He was a liar. His fist was hard against the steering wheel, against the flask at his hip, against the ring box that he held above his bowl of grits on Christmas morning. I've never been so sad to see her so happy. She planned for a night in November and we set about tying ribbons and making flowers arrangements and holding our tongues. She had always wanted children because she wanted to be loved unconditionally. We always gave her that, but still she wanted.

The best thing that ever happened to her was that accident.

The dress she picked out was beautiful. It still hangs on her closet door, and sometimes we unzip the bag and touch the pearls with frightened, secret fingers. She never did get to wear it.