My tablemates are distant cousins who’ve clearly been told nothing about me and an elderly couple who spend the entire appetizer course discussing their recent cruise.
A woman across the table leans in.
“And what do you do, dear?”
“I’m an architect.”
“Oh, how nice.”
She turns to the man beside her and starts talking about kitchen renovations.
On stage, Paige takes the microphone for the first toast. She thanks her parents. She thanks the Whitmores. She thanks her college friends, her wedding planner, her florist.
Then she looks toward the back of the room, toward me.
“And my sister Thea, who, well, who managed to show up today. A pause. That’s something, right?”
Scattered laughter. The polite kind. The kind where people aren’t sure if they’re supposed to laugh, so they do anyway.
Harold clinks glasses at the head table with Richard Whitmore. They’re leaning close, talking numbers. Eleanor sits beside them, polite, but measured. She hasn’t committed to anything yet. I can tell by the way she holds her wine glass, close, untouched, like a prop.
My mother appears at my elbow. Her perfume arrives before she does.