“Needs salt.”
I passed him the salt shaker.
“Then today’s your lucky day.”
He failed to notice the sarcasm.
“They’re in the heavy pot. I need you to move it.”
He glanced toward the patio.
“I can’t disappear into the kitchen when I’m hosting, Tals.”
“Neither can I, apparently.”
He dropped the pot onto the counter so forcefully that sauce splattered.
“I need help plating everything.”
“And it’s my broken leg.”
He grabbed a handful of chips and walked away.
The music outside grew louder.
—
During the next hour, guests repeatedly entered the kitchen searching for drinks, napkins, and ice.
Whenever the door opened, I could see Donald laughing near the pool.
Not once did I see him look in my direction.
Then someone outdoors called, “This food is amazing!”
Donald laughed.
“Talia insisted on doing everything. You know how she gets when she has a project.”
I stopped cutting the tomatoes.
Another guest said, “She must really love you.”
“She loves hosting,” Donald replied. “I couldn’t stop her if I tried.”
My fingers tightened around the knife.
He had done more than abandon me with all the work.
He had rewritten what had happened.
The kitchen door opened again.
Misha, the wife of Donald’s longtime friend Theo, stepped inside carrying an empty bucket for ice.
She surveyed the countertops before looking at my cast.
“Because the food refused to cook itself.”
She did not smile.
“Donald said you wanted to handle everything.”
“He said that?”
“He told people you turned down catering.”
I could not find an answer.
Misha placed the bucket on the counter.
“Do you want help?”
“You’re a guest, Misha. Go have fun.”
“So are the other 29 people. None of them are standing on one leg.”
“I can manage.”
Even to me, the lie sounded weak.
Misha stepped closer.
“You don’t have to make this look normal for him.”
My eyes began to sting.
“Could you carry those trays outside?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Before leaving, she rested a hand on my shoulder.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was what made it different.
Several minutes later, Diane entered with a covered dish and a wrapped present.
She stopped immediately when she noticed me beside the stove.
“What are you doing, honey?”
“Finishing the cake.”
“I can see that. Why are you doing it alone?”
“Donald wanted a proper birthday.”
She looked through the window toward the party.
“He always loved a big fuss.”
Her response disappointed me.
I continued spreading frosting between the cake layers.
“Didn’t he order food?” she asked.
“He decided it cost too much.”
“Did he help this morning?”
I kept my attention on the cake.
“No, Diane.”
Her mouth drew into a tight line.
“He told me you were excited about hosting.”
“Donald also thinks dropping his wet towel on the floor counts as choosing where it belongs.”
She nearly smiled.
Then I adjusted my position in the chair, and a bolt of pain tore through my leg.
Diane noticed immediately.
“How bad is it?”
“No, you aren’t.”
I lowered the knife to the counter.
“The doctor told me to stay off it.”
“Donald heard that?”
“He was sitting beside me.”
Diane became completely still.
For years, I had softened every uncomfortable truth when speaking to her.
That afternoon, I had no energy left to do it.
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