“She won’t.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He laughed. “Okay. She might. But she’ll be wrong.”
I wanted to believe him.
On the night of the dinner, I took extra time getting ready. I curled my hair, did my makeup a little more carefully than usual, and put on the small gold hoops my sister had mailed me from Chicago the previous Christmas. Mark wore the navy blazer I liked on him. Before we left, he came into the bedroom, looked me over, and said, “This is going to be good. I can feel it.”
I smiled at him in the mirror.
“You always say that before your family events.”
“Maybe one day I’ll be right.”
I should have known then.
We drove downtown just after sunset. The streets were busy in that polished Friday-night way cities get when every valet stand is full and every restaurant window glows like an advertisement for other people’s easy lives. The dashboard lights painted Mark’s face in soft blue. He reached over at a red light and squeezed my knee.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said.
“We’re doing it together.”
He nodded, and for a second I saw something in his expression I didn’t fully understand until much later.
Relief, yes.
But also nervousness.
Not the normal kind.
The kind a man gets when he suspects something is about to go wrong and has already started hoping it somehow won’t.
When we pulled up in front of The Gilded Spoon, the host stand outside was lit by warm sconces and two planters full of winter greenery. Inside, everything gleamed. Brass railings. Dark wood. Crisp white napkins folded into clean squares. The air smelled like butter, wine, and money.
The hostess greeted us with a polished smile.
“Good evening. Name on the reservation?”
“Mark Ellison,” he said.
She checked the screen, smiled wider, and stepped out from behind the stand.
“Of course. Right this way. The rest of your party is already here.”
I frowned.
The rest of our party?
I turned to Mark, expecting him to laugh and say she had the wrong reservation.
Instead he just looked momentarily confused and then gave a small shrug.
It was such a tiny gesture. Harmless, almost. But something cold and thin slid under my ribs.
We followed the hostess through the main dining room, past couples leaning over candlelit tables, past a long mirrored wall reflecting amber chandeliers, and into a private alcove near the back.
And there they were.
Not Brenda alone.
Not Brenda with one extra person.
An entire audience.
Her sister Carol was seated to the left, already halfway through a glass of champagne. Carol’s husband, Bill, had his suit jacket unbuttoned and his stomach comfortably resting against the table edge. Kevin, Mark’s younger brother, was sprawled in his chair like he had arrived at an all-inclusive resort instead of someone else’s dinner. Khloe, Mark’s sister, was scrolling through her phone with her mouth pursed in the practiced expression of someone who believed inconvenience was a personality trait. Next to her sat a broad-shouldered boyfriend in a loud blazer who stood halfway to greet us and said, “T-Bone,” as if that explained both his name and his existence.
And at the center of it all sat Brenda, glowing.
She rose from her chair with her arms spread wide.
“There are my favorite children,” she sang, kissing Mark’s cheek and giving me one of her signature air kisses, the kind that never actually landed but somehow still managed to leave a residue.
“Happy birthday,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
“Oh, I’m so happy,” she replied. “When Mark told me you two were treating me to dinner, I just thought, why not make it a proper family celebration? It’s been so long since we were all together.”
Then she looked at the table, then back at me, and smiled in that soft poisonous way she had.
“The more the merrier.”
Mark laughed weakly.
Weakly.
That was the exact word for it.
Not warmly. Not happily. Not even awkwardly.
Weakly.
Like a man hearing the first crack in a frozen lake and pretending the sound is nothing.
I took my seat beside him and smoothed my napkin into my lap while my pulse slowly began climbing.
This was not the dinner we agreed to.
