The oven clock ticked over to nine.
Two days.
Two days until the driveway would fill, and Diane would walk in like she owned the deed, and Harley would smile his easy smile, and I would be expected to serve.
I straightened the last place card until it lined up perfectly with the edge of the plate.
This year, I told myself, would finally be under my control.
I did not yet know that something unexpected would happen in the morning.
The doorbell rang the next morning.
It was Ryan, standing with a foil-covered dish balanced on one hand and his usual crooked grin. I opened the door, still holding a bundle of cinnamon sticks I’d been arranging for the centerpiece.
“Cranberry orange,” he said, lifting the dish. “Mom’s recipe. I’m just the delivery guy.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Kitchen counter, please.”
He walked past me, set the dish down, and leaned against the island like he had something to say and wasn’t quite sure how to say it.
I noticed.
Ryan didn’t linger unless he was working up to something.
“Madison,” he said, tapping a finger against the marble. “Random question. Where are all the extra people supposed to sit?”
