She paid. Two thousand one hundred and forty dollars, standing up, in front of everyone.
Then Tom did something I’ll never forget.
He picked up his plate, his glass and his name card. He walked the length of that long table, past his sister, past her twelve friends, and sat down next to me at the kids’ table. Knees up by his chin on a tiny chair.
He tapped his glass.
“Actually, I’d like to say something. The person who planned tonight has been sitting by the door for two hours cutting up pasta. She found every photo in that slideshow. She ordered a cake shaped like my dad’s boat. And I told her to let it go. I’m sorry, Rach. I should have said it at the start of the night.”
My nephew, very seriously, handed him a crayon.
The rest of the night was the party I’d planned. We ate the boat cake at the little table. Tom’s dad cried at the slideshow.
Lauren left before the coffee. Most of her twelve guests left with her.
She didn’t speak to me for four months. Then, in March, she sent a text. It just said: I’m sorry. I was jealous of how much he loves you.
I wrote back: I know. Come for dinner on Sunday. You can sit wherever you want.
She came. She sat at the kids’ end. On purpose.
