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I sit beside Kane on the loveseat and wait for the old panic to arrive. The compulsion to scan the room for what needs doing.
It twitches once when I notice the cocktail napkins are still wrapped in plastic.
Then Kane’s hand settles on my thigh.
His palm is warm through my jeans. His fingers curve inward, possessive enough to be a little racy if anyone looks closely.
That’s all it takes to remind me that the damn napkins are not my problem.
My mother passes through the room carrying an empty water pitcher.
“Delilah, dear, could you fill this?”
“No.”
I decline to elaborate.
My mother stares.
I smile.
After several long seconds, she turns toward Cousin Jenna. “Would you mind?”
“Sure,” Jenna says, and takes it.
Nothing collapses. Jesus does not reverse course at the gates of Jerusalem. The ham continues cooking.
Life goes on.
Kane’s thumb moves once against my leg.
“Show-off,” he murmurs.
“I’m drunk on power.”
“A tale as old as time.”
“I may refuse to pass the salt later.”
His gaze lowers to my mouth. “Don’t overextend yourself.”
The doorbell goes at ten past two, and my mother sings out from the hall, “There they are!”
Vivian comes in first in ivory, ring hand doing what ring hands do.
Connor follows behind her, carrying a store-bought lemon cake with the sticker still on the box.
My mother hurries toward them. Vivian kisses her cheek. Connor shakes Father Dunn’s hand.
Then Vivian sees me beside Kane.
Her smile tightens.
My mother brings them into the room with a hand on each of their arms. “This means so much,” she announces. “All of us together. Moving forward.”
Moving forward.
The phrase has appeared in every voicemail since Christmas. Families move forward. Sisters must move forward. People who love each other do not dwell on the past, particularly when the past contains just so many silly, forgivable little mistakes, right?
