“For you? I’ll make it work. But you owe me a Christmas booking.”
“Done.”
I hung up and stared at the ceiling.
Then I opened a new document, typed carefully, and sent it to the printer.
The printer whirred in the corner.
One page slid out.
It was a neat little sign, centered in black ink and elegant font.
I folded it once and set it on my desk under a paperweight.
Then I picked up my phone.
I made a short list in my head first: my parents, and the four cousins who had ever, even once, treated this house like it was mine.
Harley’s aunt and uncle were Diane’s siblings; they’d close ranks around her before the gravy cooled.
The neighbors I loved, but I could feed them properly in December, without an audience. Ryan made the cut, and so did the girlfriend he’d been bringing since spring.
Eight, counting Harley and me. Clean.
Then, I opened a group of separate text threads and copied the same message into each one.
“Small change of plans. Dinner is now at Marchetti’s, private room, four o’clock Thursday. Don’t mention it to Diane. I’ll explain everything.”
The replies came in one by one. My mother sent a single word.
