Writing to Jordan always felt like negotiating a treaty with a country that had already conquered mine. Every word had to be measured, every punctuation mark weighed for potential misinterpretation.
“Dear Jordan, Ethan’s birthday party is this Saturday at two o’clock,” I wrote, my fingers stiff on the keyboard. “He specifically asked for you to be there. We would love to have you join us by the pool.”
I cleared my throat, the kitchen silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator.
Mara walked back into the room, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. She stopped behind my shoulder, her ponytail swinging as she leaned down to read the screen.
“You’re actually doing it,” she said, her voice dropping into a hard, disappointed register.
“He asked me to, Mara,” I said, not looking up. “I can’t tell his son no on his birthday.”
“He’s going to bring her,” Mara said, her hands clenching into small fists at her sides. “He won’t come alone.”
