The Riverside Ballroom always felt like America in miniature—crystal chandeliers hung over red-white-and-blue bunting somebody called “classy,” a valet podium out front with a little flag magnet stuck to the side like a proud afterthought, and a tray of sweet iced tea sweating beside the champagne as if it didn’t know which side of the bar it belonged on. Sinatra crooned softly from the speakers, smooth enough to make the room feel older than it was. I stood near the bar with a pinot noir I didn’t really want, my clutch pressed against my ribs.
Inside, my keys knocked together every time I breathed, and the enamel U.S. flag charm on the ring—chipped on one corner, stubbornly bright—tapped my thumb like a metronome. Two hundred guests, a river-view dance floor, and my sister Brooke in the middle of it all, glowing under attention like she’d plugged herself into a wall outlet.
I told myself I was only here for one hour. That was the wager. If I could survive one hour without shrinking into the person they expected—quiet, grateful, invisible—I’d go home and sleep like a normal adult.
If I couldn’t… I’d finally stop pretending I was okay with being background music. Brooke had been working that engagement ring for so long I started to wonder if her wrist was sore. Two carats in a platinum setting, angled toward every light source like it was part of the ballroom decor.
She drifted from cluster to cluster with her hand held out “naturally,” the way people do when they want admiration to look accidental. “Isn’t it just insane?” she said for what had to be the twentieth time. “Evan designed it with the jeweler.
Like, from scratch.”
Evan—tall, clean-cut, navy suit that probably cost less than the ring—smiled beside her with the careful expression of a man trying not to look like he’s calculating monthly payments. My mother leaned in, champagne flute raised, eyes shining. “Tell them about the proposal again, honey.”
Brooke’s smile widened, practiced and perfect.
“Okay, so picture this—”
Dad laughed before the punchline even arrived, like his job was to cue the audience. I watched it from the edge, taking slow sips, keeping my face neutral. When people’s eyes slid past me, I let them.
It was easier that way. A cousin I hadn’t seen since my college graduation wandered over, squinting at me like I was a familiar song he couldn’t name. “Sophia, right?” he said.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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