Chapter 2
The chair legs scraped against the hardwood when I pushed back. It was louder than I meant it to be, a short screech that made my shoulders flinch. I kept both hands on the letter. It had gone soft at the edges from where I'd been holding it, and the paper was warm.
I didn't look at David. I didn't look at anyone. I just said, "Excuse me," and it came out thin. I stood and the napkin that had been in my lap slid to the floor. I left it there.
The kitchen was ten feet away, past the doorway where the Christmas tree lights kept blinking. I walked with the letter against my stomach, my elbows tucked in. I could hear my own breathing the whole way, shallow and fast, and underneath it the clink of a wine glass being set down too hard in the dining room.
The kitchen felt colder. The overhead light was too bright after the chandelier. My mother's counters were crowded with foil pans and a half-empty bottle of sparkling cider and the extra ham platter no one had touched. I went to the sink and turned on the water even though my hands weren't dirty. I needed something to do with them besides hold the paper.
I heard her footsteps before she spoke.
"Lauren," Megan said from the doorway. She had her wine glass in one hand. She didn't come all the way in, just leaned against the frame like she was checking on me but wanted to keep one foot in the other room.
I turned the water off. "I'm fine."
"He didn't mean it like that," she said. She said it quickly, the way you say it when you've already decided what happened. "You know how David gets when he's hosting. He just spent all day on that ham."
I nodded because I didn't trust my voice.
She took a sip and then gave me the soft smile I'd seen her give students' parents at conferences. "Honestly, Christmas isn't the time, you know? Maybe wait till things settle. It was just bad timing."
That was the reassurance. That I should have waited. That the letter was the problem, not the way he'd raised his hand at me while still holding the knife.
Through the doorway I could see the edge of the dining table. David had gone back to carving. He'd picked up the knife and fork again and was sawing at the ham like nothing had paused at all. Ryan, the man in the black sweater on the right side of the table, had laughed at something, and David laughed back, louder. I watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he cut. He didn't look toward the kitchen once.
"He's already back at it," I whispered.
Megan glanced over her shoulder and then back at me. "See? He's fine. You're fine. Come sit back down before your food gets cold."
She thought she was helping. Her hand hovered for a second like she might touch my arm and then dropped. She was still wearing the thin necklace that caught the kitchen light.
"I just need a minute," I said.
She studied me for a beat longer, then nodded like I'd agreed with her. "Okay. Just a minute, though. Mom made the potatoes you like."
She turned and walked back to the table. I heard her chair slide, heard David's voice carrying now, easy and host-like, asking someone if they wanted the crispy edge piece. The room had filled back in with sound - silverware clattering, the chandelier humming, Ryan saying something about the game. It was as if the last five minutes had been erased and they'd smoothed the tablecloth right over it.
I looked down at the letter in my hands. The paper had creased in the middle where I'd pressed it to my chest. At the top, in the program's plain serif font, it still said the words I'd read alone in my car before I'd driven to my parents' house in Ohio. I hadn't gotten to read a single line out loud. If I left the letter on the counter the way I'd almost done, I knew exactly what would happen. Someone would pick it up to be helpful. It would get passed hand to hand with greasy fingers. David would skim it and fold it wrong and say, "We'll talk later," which meant never.
My dress had those big pockets on the side, hidden in the seam, with the gold buttons running down the front. I hadn't used them all night. I folded the letter in thirds, carefully, along the creases that were already there, until it was a small thick rectangle. The paper made a soft crinkling sound.
I slipped it into the right pocket of my dress. It fit. I pressed my palm flat against it and felt the sharp corner through the fabric. It was hidden now, and warm against my leg.
May you like
Behind me the dining room kept going without me. I could hear David offering seconds, Megan laughing a little too loud, the scrape of knives on those white plates with the gold rim. No one called my name.
I stayed where I was, my hand still on the pocket, and let the water drip in the sink.
