Eleanor had turned sixty, and the woman deserved more than a card and a generic cake from the grocery store. She’d been kind to me from the moment Jenna first brought me around, a warmth that didn’t come with conditions. She didn’t care that I didn’t grow up with money, that I didn’t have the “right” last name, that my suit jackets still felt like costumes on my shoulders even after years of wearing them. To Eleanor, I was Jenna’s husband. That was enough. That meant something.
So I’d planned the party. Booked the venue. Coordinated the menu. Paid the deposit without telling anyone. I’d told Jenna it was a gift from both of us because it made her happy to say it that way, and because it didn’t matter to me who got credit.
Melissa, of course, found a way to make even this about her.
I’d already seen her across the room twice, sweeping through the guests like she was a celebrity at her own premiere. Designer dress that probably cost more than my first car. Heels that made her taller, sharper, harder to ignore. Hair pulled into a sleek style that screamed control. She laughed too loudly and touched people’s arms too much, a performance of charm so practiced you could almost hear the script flipping in her head.
The first time I’d met her, she’d looked me up and down like I was a questionable purchase.
“So,” she’d said, slowly. “What do you do?”
I’d told her.
And she’d nodded the way people nod when they’ve already decided it isn’t impressive.
Everything after that had been a long, slow series of reminders that I was an outsider. The comments were always wrapped in humor, presented like harmless teasing. That was Melissa’s favorite trick—say something cruel, then smile like you were the one who couldn’t take a joke if you got upset.
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