“You understand that feeling, don’t you?”
I sat beside her.
“Yes,” I said. “I understand it better than you know.”
For a long time, we didn’t speak.
Then Camille turned toward me.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“For the seating arrangement. For taking credit. For what happened at the buffet.”
Her voice trembled.
“I
knew you did the work. I knew the party was yours. I just didn’t think you’d care because you never seemed upset about anything.”
I swallowed.
“I cared every time, Camille.”
She began crying again.
“I just didn’t know how to say it.”
That evening, Aunt Ruth invited me over for tea.
When I arrived, the kettle was already warming.
Mister was asleep beside the window.
The white rose corsage I’d given Ruth for the anniversary party sat in a little glass of water on her kitchen table.
