The Truth About Forever(48)

"Oh, don't do that," Delia said, as I concentrated on a spot on the opposite wall, still trying to calm myself from the various shames that had been thrown my way in the last few minutes, "please God I'm begging you. Can't you just avoid him?"

"It's the principle of the thing," Kristy replied, piling more shrimp on her tray by the handful, "and no, I can't."

The door swung open again, and Monica ambled in, blowing her bangs out of her face. "Shrimp," she said flatly, looking at Kristy.

"I'm sure they do," she shot back, plunking another container of cocktail sauce and some napkins onto her tray. "Bastards."

"Kristy," Delia said, but she was already pushing back out the door, her tray on her palm, rising to shoulder level. As it swung shut, Delia looked around, somewhat desperately, then picked up a tray of filled wineglasses, lifting it carefully with both hands.

"Just to be on the safe side," she said, nudging the door open with her toe and glancing out at the living room, where I could see Kristy zipping past a group of people who were reaching, in vain, for her shrimp, "I'm going to make a pass around the room and keep an eye on her. Wes, grab that other tray of glasses. Monica, get another trayful of toasts out here. And Macy—"

I turned and looked at her, glad to have something else to focus on.

"I'm sorry," she said, and smiled at me so kindly I felt like it was a third shame, the biggest of all, even though I knew that wasn't how she intended it. Still, I felt something hurt in my heart as the door swung shut again, as if all the inadequacies I'd felt since Jason's email were no longer hidden away inside me but were as clear on my face as if they were written there.

After Delia left, the room seemed to feel smaller. Monica was slowly moving toasts onto her tray, while Wes finished pouring the wine behind me. I could see out the kitchen door to the garden and the road beyond it, and for a second I considered just pushing it open and walking out, could almost feel the grass under my feet, the sun on my face as I just left this behind.

Monica picked up her tray, then brushed past me and out the door. As it swung open, I heard a second of party noises and voices, and then it was quiet again. When I turned around to look at Wes he was already lifting his tray, arranging the glasses on it, clearly more concerned with keeping them balanced than with my various shortcomings. But then he looked at me.

"Hey," he said, and I felt some part of me brace, preparing for what came next, "are you—"

"I'm fine," I told him, my easy, knee-jerk answer. "It was nothing, just some stupid thing somebody said."

"—gonna be able to grab that other tray?" he finished.

Then we both shut up, abruptly: it was one of those moments when you're not sure what to respond to first, like a conversational photo finish where you're still waiting for the judges to weigh in.

"Yeah." I nodded at the tray behind him. "Go ahead, I'm right behind you."

"All right," he said. And then, for one second, he looked at me, as if maybe he should say more. But he didn't. He just walked to the door, pushing it open with his free hand. "I'll see you out there."

As he disappeared into the living room I caught another quick, slicing glimpse of the party, not enough to see much, but then I didn't have to, really. I knew Kristy was probably exacting the revenge she thought I was due, while Delia moved right behind her, making apologies and smoothing rough edges. Monica was most likely following her own path, either oblivious or deeply emotionally invested, depending on what you believed, while Wes worked the perimeter, always keeping an eye on everything. There was a whole other world out there, the Talbots' world, where I didn't belong now, if I ever had. But it was okay not to fit in everywhere, as long as you did somewhere. So I picked up my tray, careful to keep it level, and pushed through the door to join my friends.



"Delia," Kristy said, "just go, would you please? Everything's fine."

Delia shook her head, pressing one finger to her temple. "I'm forgetting something, I just know it. What is it?"

Her husband, Pete, who was standing by his car with his keys in hand, said patiently, "Is it that our dinner reservations were for ten minutes ago?"

"No," she snapped, shooting him a look. "It's something else. God, think, Delia. Think."

Beside me, Kristy yawned, then looked at her watch. It was eight-thirty and, finally done with the academic cocktail party, we were amassed in the client's driveway, waiting to leave. We'd been all ready to go, and then Delia had that feeling.

"You know what I mean," she said now, snapping her fingers, as if that action might cause some sort of molecular shift that would jog her memory. "When you just know you're forgetting something?"

"Are you sure it's not a pregnancy thing?" Kristy asked.

Delia glared at her. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure."

We all exchanged looks. The closer Delia got to her due date, the angrier she became when anyone attributed anything—loss of memory, mood swings, her conviction that every room was always too hot, even when everyone else's teeth were chattering—to her condition.

"Honey," Pete said gently, tentatively reaching to put his hand on her arm, "our sitter is costing us ten bucks an hour. Can we please go to dinner? Please?"