Page 228 of Sweet Ruin

Priya’s four-year-old daughter Zara comes flying down the hall in a purple princess dress with a crown crooked on her head. I catch her under the arms and haul her up before I’ve fully processed the rest of it.

Because the rest of it is: Priya, hands over her mouth. Angelica with a party hat pulled down over her eyebrows. Cameron in a button-down he clearly bought today, tag still crimped at the collar. Jolene with a glass of wine already halfway gone. Skye Brewer, my lawyer, in jeans, which I have never seen. Niko. Yuri. Stepan coming in behind me still holding his keys.

“Surprise!” Priya says, and then: “You didn’t guess. You seriously didn’t guess.”

“I thought you were just sick of me.”

“I am sick of you. I planned a party for you anyway. That’s love, Delilah.”

Over her head, a huge banner hangs from the ceiling. It reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY DELILAH in cut-out letters. One of the Ls is backwards. Zara tells me she did it that way on purpose, which I choose to believe.

I look around for my mother, my sister. It’s reflexive.

But they aren’t here. Neither is anybody else with my last name.

“They’re not invited,” Kane says by my ear. “None of them are.” He slips my coat off my shoulders, kisses the side of my neck, and steps away, leaving me to fend for myself in the middle of a crowd of people all smiling at me.

Another reflex: immediately asking who wants a drink.

I call the question over my shoulder as I head for the kitchen.

But I don’t get far.

Before I can even set a toe on the tile, Anton gently grabs my elbow. “No, Ms. Dorsey.” He spins me around and guides me back toward the party. “Tonight, I do this.”

“I’m faster than you,” I warn. “And I’m not afraid to fight dirty.”

“You are.” He nods gravely. “Still no.”

Then Priya’s in the doorway with her arms crossed and her head tipped. “Delilah Dorsey. Get back in the party.”

“I was checking the⁠—”

“I know what you were doing.” She points at me, then at an armchair in the middle of the living room. “Sit down. Let people look at you and sigh longingly at how hot and cool you are. It’s one night in the spotlight. You’ll survive. These people love you, remember?”

“You don’t know for a fact that I’ll survive,” I argue. “And if I do die, you’re gonna feel soooo guilty.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Now, go. Scoot your booty. We want to celebrate you.”

And so they do. We eat and laugh and tell stories. Anton is constantly replenishing everyone’s drinks and bringing around serving dish after serving dish filled with my favorite foods.

Dumplings from my favorite Chinese place.

Sesame noodles. Baby back ribs. Philly cheesesteaks and little gem salads. It makes no sense together except for that I love them, and even though that’s kind of a terrifying theme for a perennial people-pleaser like me, no one seems to mind one bit.

Each time I reach for a serving dish, someone else hands me what I want. When a glass needs refilling, Anton beats me to it. When Zara drops a dumpling, Priya picks it up before I can get out of my chair.

I keep waiting for the assignment attached to all this attention.

None arrives.

Instead, people tell stories about me while I remain seated and increasingly desperate to hide under the table.

Then Priya taps a fork on her glass, which makes Yuri flinch and reach toward his jacket, which makes Niko laugh so hard he chokes.

“Okay,” Priya says. “Short speech.”

“That’ll be the day,” I snort.