“Which is more than I can say for every person at this table.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. Light, uncertain. The kind people let out when they aren’t sure if they’re being invited into a joke or set up for a scene.
Rebecca turned her head toward me.
I was sitting three seats down, paper plate in one hand, plastic fork in the other, feeling suddenly as though every light in that yard had been angled at my face.
“There’s Mark,” she said sweetly. “My husband. The nicest man in three counties. So nice, in fact, that if someone broke into our house, he’d probably apologize for not having the silver polished.”
This time the laughter came quicker. Louder. Her cousin Brent slapped the table. Somebody near the grill snorted beer through his nose.
I forced a smile because that’s what I had trained myself to do. Rebecca had made a sport of cutting me down in public for years, always in that same airy tone, always with a laugh attached so I’d look thin-skinned if I objected. Most people told me she was “just spirited.” “That’s just Rebecca.” “You know how she is.” As if cruelty became charming if you dressed it in a nice outfit and served it with chardonnay.
She kept going.
“Honestly, if I’d known fifteen years ago that I was marrying a man who needed permission to have an opinion, I might’ve registered for better china.”
There were gasps then. Actual gasps. A couple of people looked down at their plates. Her father frowned. Her mother shifted uncomfortably. But nobody stopped her.
