“Amy made a budget,” Lola said.
Everyone looked at her.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“You told Mom.”
Gloria lifted both hands.
“You were excited.”
Amy appeared as surprised as I felt.
“You told Gloria about the spreadsheet?”
“It’s a good spreadsheet.”
“You said it had too many categories.”
“It has the correct number emotionally.”
“There are six.”
“Emotionally twelve.”
Amy smiled. Gloria watched me watch her, so I concentrated on the food. This dinner had become a trap. Lola pointed her fork at Amy.
“Are you coming to Christmas?”
Silence arrived. Lola’s question was innocent; any answer was not. Christmas was six months away, after the competition and marathon, beyond the fake anniversary on paper. Amy waited for an exit I could have provided. Instead, I froze because some part of me wanted her answer. Amy turned to Lola.
“I don’t know what plans will look like then.”
Lola frowned.
“That means no.”
“It means I cannot promise yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Christmas is far away.”
“It happens every year.”
“Consistent scheduling,” Amy said.
“Exactly.”
I laughed despite myself. Amy continued.
“If your aunt and I are still part of each other’s lives, I would like to come.”
The conditional answer was careful. Honest. It still reached into me. Lola accepted it.
“Okay. I’ll save a chair.”
Gloria looked down at her plate. She was hiding emotion. So was I.
