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Just when you think people can’t stoop any lower… they dig under the old bar and find a way to wriggle beneath it.

“You’ll toast them,” she repeats. “Show everybody there’s no hard feelings. That’s how we put this behind us.”

Vivian is watching me now. Her hand is threaded through Connor’s arm and her chin is up. There is something ghoulish and hungry in her face, because this is the part she wants.

Not the ring.

This.

Connor looks at the tablecloth.

Kane leans in an inch and speaks so low that only I can hear it. “What do you need?”

What do I need?

That’s a good question. A great question, in fact. Give the man a prize, because in thirty-one years at this table, none of my so-called “loved ones” have ever once asked me that.

I take inventory of my options.

Option one: Arm myself with the serving fork. It’s lying right there by the roast, the big two-pronged one, and I could probably get it buried in Connor’s ass before anyone intervened. It would be quick. It would be memorable. Aunt Virginia would absolutely testify that she saw nothing.

Option two: Cry like a baby. That one is locked and loaded, if I choose it. It’s crouched right behind my sternum with its bags already packed. If I go that route, it won’t be a half-assed effort, either. We’re talking the full production. Snot. Hiccups. Wet, ugly, gulping sobs.

But that would just give my mother exactly what she’s been shopping for all evening. A crying Delilah is a Delilah who cares too much, who never got over it, who is jealous, who is not well.

Option three: Get the hell out of Dodge. Stand up, get my coat, and go eat dumplings in Sunset Park.

In the end, though, I choose none of those.

I set my napkin beside my plate and stand up.

My mother’s shoulders drop half an inch in relief. “Thank God you came to your⁠—”

“I’m not going to toast them,” I say. “I’m going to say one thing, and then I’ll sit back down and finish my dinner, because the potatoes are good.”

“Delilah—!”

“You can celebrate them,” I offer with a shrug. “Every one of you. If this is what the family does now, then do it. Buy them a card. Go to the wedding. Put it in the church bulletin. That’s your business and I’m not going to waste my life worrying about it.”

Vivian’s mouth opens.

“But I’m not going to be your punching bag anymore. I won’t compete for your love. If you choose them, so be it. It’s a bad choice, because those are two people who lied to me for years and made jokes about my body in writing while they did it, in my bed, on the day we buried my dad. You can call it fate and dress it up with pretty words however you want, but I was there. I’ve read the receipts. I’m not going to stand here and say a nicer version of it out loud so that dinner goes smoother.”

The room is completely silent.

“That’s it,” I say. “I don’t have any more breath to waste on the topic. Congratulations on the ring, Viv. It’s very shiny.”

I sit down.

My mother stands there holding the back of Vivian’s chair. She’s paler than the mashed potatoes.

Vivian recovers first. She puts on a simpering voice. “Dee, sweetie, it’s okay to be upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You are, though. And that’s fine!” She smiles. “I just hate to see you doing all this. Bringing a—” She flicks her eyes at Kane, up and down. “—I mean, God. Whatever this is. Renting a scary man off the internet to sit next to you at dinner so you don’t feel so lonely. You don’t have to prove anything to us. Nobody’s keeping score.”

Kane hasn’t moved. The longer he goes without budging an inch, the more afraid I am for what’s going to happen when he eventually does.