“You know what your problem is?” I told my reflection as I slipped the dress off the hanger.
My reflection didn’t answer.
“You keep hoping she’ll like you. And she’s never going to. So we’re done hoping.”
I stepped into the dress.
Tomorrow, I wouldn’t sit silently while Lori praised Cheryl and chipped away at me.
“For the first time, Lori,” I whispered, “you’re going to hear me.”
Three weeks earlier, I had stood on Lori’s porch holding a homemade lemon tart and wearing a smile I had practiced in the car.
The door opened before I could knock.
“Samantha, sweetheart,” Lori said, glancing at the dessert. “You brought something. How brave of you.”
“It’s lemon. Mason’s favorite.”
“Mm. Well, we’ll see how it holds up next to the pie Aunt Doreen brought. She used real butter.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and walked in.
The living room was already crowded. Mason had arrived earlier by taxi to help while I finished the tart. He waved from the couch and half rose, then sat back as Lori swept toward the kitchen.
I placed the tart beside three other desserts, with mine at the back.
Then the doorbell rang.
I already knew.
“Oh, Cheryl, what a lovely surprise,” Lori called from the entryway. “I had no idea you were in the neighborhood!”
Cheryl stepped inside with her arms folded tightly over her stomach.
“I, um, I brought wine,” she said.
This time, I watched her closely. She wasn’t smiling and kept glancing around like she was checking the exits. On her left hand was a thin band she quickly tugged beneath her sleeve when Lori pulled her inside.
Mason stiffened on the couch.
He looked at me, gave me that same small apologetic smile, then looked away.
That was all I got.
I made it through dinner by counting the tines on my fork. Cheryl barely spoke, pushing food around her plate and giving short answers to Lori’s leading questions.
“Remember when you and Mason went to that little cabin?” Lori asked brightly. “Wasn’t that the loveliest weekend?”
“That was a long time ago,” Cheryl murmured.
“But such a sweet memory.”
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