Page 33 of Sweet Ruin

MOM: Delilah? Goodness gracious, child, have you forgotten all about your family? The caterers? The party?

MOM: It’s nearly five! Where are you?!

Shit. She’s right. I’ve been sitting in a dark office, reading the same document over and over like it might change its mind.

But even though it’s nothing but bad news for me, I’m almost glad I found this thing. Here of all places, now of all times. It’s the missing piece I needed to solidify the case beyond all reasonable doubt.

I look up and see that the export is finished. That’s it, then. Everything is ready.

The stage is set. The dynamite is lit.

All that’s left to do is chuck it in the crowd and watch the carnage ensue.

I grab my things and hurry out the back entrance. Obviously, the Gowanus is a parking lot. It’s Christmas Eve and half of Brooklyn is trying to get somewhere with a pie on the passenger seat.

“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up,” I mutter through my windshield at the sea of red lights.

When I finally pull up, my mother’s porch light is on and the caterer’s van is already double-parked with its hazards going.

The clock on my dashboard says 6:04 P.M.

She’s out the front door before I’ve got the trunk open. Full makeup, hair done, one earring in.

“Four o’clock,” she accuses instead of a hello. “You said four o’clock.”

I hand her the Yule log I grabbed on my way out of the bakery because her hands are free and I’d like them not to be. “Traffic was insane. Everybody in the world is on the BQE.”

“The caterer has been standing here for an eternity. I was upstairs. I had to come down in my slip!”

I kiss her cheek. “You look great, Mom.”

“That’s not the point.” She turns back toward the house. “Hurry along, there’s lots to do.”

I tag along in her wake like the ugly little duckling she’s always seen me as. “Is Viv here yet?” I ask casually.

“Of course not. You know her.”

I thought I did, I think to myself. But not quite as well as I do now.

While Mom directs the caterers in her haughtiest voice on where to go and what to arrange and how they must never be heard from unless spoken to, I slip into the living room to check on my projector setup.

Everything seems to be in order. The folding chairs are lined up in the gaps between couches. The cables are all carefully tucked out of sight. The screen is rolled down, ready to display the contents of my slideshow. And the dangling HDMI cable awaits my laptop, the only piece left.

Satisfied, I go take over for my mom. She huffs something about “can’t find good help anywhere these days,” which the catering crew definitely hears. Then she disappears upstairs to finish getting dressed.

“Sorry about that,” I say to them with a blushing smile. “Anyway, what can I do to help you all?”

By half past six, the house starts filling. By seven, it’s standing room only. Aunts, uncles, second cousins, neighbors, friends, fellow churchgoers, on and on.

Somebody’s kids go straight for the tree skirt.

Somebody’s boyfriend asks me where the bathroom is and calls me “hon.”

Still no sign of Viv or Connor. I’d like to check my phone for his location, but I’m a little busy. Everyone seems to need my attention specifically.

“Delilah, the little one wants juice.”

“Delilah, is there a bathroom down here?”