Page 36 of Sweet Ruin
He hesitates, tugging at his bristly mustache. “Eh… I guess you’re right, huh? He did always insist on that. Well, alright then. S’pose it makes sense. Although…”
“Great!” I blurt. “Glad you agree. I’ll go tell everyone.”
I walk to the sideboard, which is where the drinks are and where Connor is, four feet from my sister monologuing about how fab Tokyo is during cherry blossom season, and I call out, loud enough for everyone in the house to hear me:
“Heads up, everyone! Quick change of plans. We’re doing the slideshow right after dinner instead of after dessert. Connor’s dad’s call. So don’t go anywhere.”
Vivian’s head whips around. “After dinner?”
“Yep. Soon as the plates are cleared.”
“Dee-Dee, some of us are still eating.”
“Then bring your plate,” I say as pleasantly as I can.
Connor is squinting at me with his glass halfway up to his lips. “Dee, you okay?”
“Who, me? I’m great.”
“You’re very…” He does a thing with his hand. “A lot. Tonight.”
“It’s Christmas,” I say. “I’m festive.”
Vivian is not done, though. She’s standing and brushing through the crowd of teens gathered at her feet. “Since when do you decide the schedule?”
I shrug. “Ed asked me to. It’s no big deal.”
It’s obvious that she wants to argue, but with so many eyes and ears on all sides, she doesn’t want to make a scene.
Instead, she takes her phone out of her clutch again. This time, she doesn’t bother hiding it.
Which confirms my suspicions. Whatever the two of them had planned has just gotten complicated.
Brace yourself, sister of mine.
It’s about to get a whole lot worse.
But first, it gets worse for me.
Because I now have less time than I anticipated to prepare, and the nerves are starting to come alive in my stomach.
Am I doing the right thing? Have I gone too far?
All I have to do is close my eyes and picture those text messages.
Then I decide, nope, not too far at all.
In fact, I might not be going far enough.
Dinner is wrapping up. Little clusters of Dorseys and Boyds and whoever-the-hell-else-is-here are sitting on couches and chairs, chatting happily.
Buffet trays sit mostly empty, scraped clean of the good stuff.
As per usual, nobody has touched Auntie Rosa’s lasagna. She put grapes in it one year and no one ever forgave her.
What all that means, though, is that it’s almost time for my performance.
I need to rehearse. All the big pieces are in place—the projector, my laptop, the slideshow—but I have to emcee this whole affair and I only get one shot at it.
