Page 29 of Sweet Ruin

“Dee? You still there?”

“Still here.”

“You went quiet on me,” Connor accuses.

I did. But that’s only because I’m dragging a cropped photo of my sister’s bare hip onto a black background and making sure it’s properly centered, which happens to be a silent activity.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Got a lot of paperwork to get through before the party tonight.”

Not entirely untrue.

My phone is resting face-down on the desk, on speaker. I can talk to my husband just fine as long as I don’t have to look at his name while I do it.

The shop has been dark since noon. I told Priya to close at lunch and lock up on her way out.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “Because I can stay. Amari can do daycare pickup without me. He’d prefer it, honestly.”

I’d waved her off. “Go home, Pri.”

“Alright, if you say so.” She picked at her wind-chapped lip. “Oh, don’t forget that the Nelsons’ second tray⁠—”

“Is done and boxed and in the front cooler with their name on it in marker. I know.”

She frowned and squinted at me. “Everything alright, honey buns? You’ve been weird lately.”

It took everything I had to shrug it off. “Just a Christmastime funk. It’ll pass.”

“Well, alrighty. But I’ve got a futon at my place if tonight goes badly.”

“It’s a party at my mother’s house,” I’d drawled. “It’s always bad.”

“Delilah Dorsey.” She jabbed a finger at me. “Swear right now you’ll text me in case of emergencies.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Cross my heart and hope to die. Now, go home. Merry Christmas, love.”

Finally, she’d left. I immediately extinguished all the lights, drew the blinds, and flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

Then I retreated to the office.

The front half of tonight’s petard-hoisting PowerPoint is ten years of Dorsey extended family chronicles. Christmases, birthdays, the summer at the lake, the year Dad wore the reindeer antlers to dinner and wouldn’t take them off.

Vivian is in the middle of almost every frame. She’s never once had to be told where to stand.

I’m in some of them, too, though usually as an elbow at the edge or a hand holding a platter. Mostly, I’m the person who took nine of the ten pictures and only made it into the tenth by accident.

That part went quickly.

But before I could get into the scandalous part of the slideshow in earnest, Connor called, so now, I’m stuck pretending all is well in the world.

“So what time do you want to head over?” he asks.

“I’m going straight there from here. I’ve got the food to bring at four.”

“Right. The three trips.” He laughs. “You want me to swing by and grab a load?”

I stop dragging photos for a second. That’s weirdly thoughtful of him.

“No,” I say. “I’ve got it.”