I spent four months planning Tom’s fortieth birthday.
The private room at Castello’s, the Italian place where he proposed. The menu. The wine. A slideshow of forty years of photos I’d begged from every relative who owned a shoebox. The cake, shaped like the little fishing boat his dad used to take him out on.
I paid the $3,200 deposit out of my own savings. Tom didn’t know the number. I didn’t want him to.
The only person I told about the plans was his sister, Lauren. I needed her for the guest list.
That was my mistake.
I got to the restaurant at six-thirty, half an hour early, to check the room.
Lauren was already there.
She’d moved the place cards.
Her name was now in the middle of the long table, next to Tom. Her husband on his other side. Then their friends. Then Tom’s parents.
And mine was on a small round table by the door. With the kids. Her three, my nephew, and a box of crayons.
“Oh, there you are,” Lauren said. “I hope you don’t mind. The big table was getting crowded, and honestly, you’re basically staff tonight anyway. You’ll want to be near the door for the cake.”
She smiled.
I didn’t say anything. People were already walking in.
When Tom arrived, she was the first one to hug him. She stood up before the starters and tapped her glass.
