are suspiciously dramatic words for someone holding my good fork.”
Her smile appeared immediately, almost with relief. “You own three forks. I refuse to recognize a hierarchy.”
The joke worked. That was the problem with ten years of practice: we could rescue each other from almost anything, including the conversations we needed to have. Elise cut another slice and offered it to me. I accepted, though I could barely taste the raspberry.
“Everybody knows?” I asked.
“About the party? Yes. I texted them last night.”
“And they’re all fine with
