« I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule. »
« Cinderella’s coming to dinner. »
« Chloe. »
« What?! He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow. » She held up the crooked napkin swan and squinted at it. « I’m only half joking, by the way. »
I opened my mouth to defend him, then closed it because she wasn’t wrong.
Six months of Sunday dinners, and the man had never once stayed past 7:30 p.m. He was always polite about it. Always had a reason. But the reasons kept shuffling, like someone dealing a new hand every week.
I opened my mouth to defend him.
« Set out the water glasses, » I said instead.
« Deflection… »
I gave my daughter a look.
Continue on the next page:
