“I want it small,” Cloe said. “I mean that. Not small as in we couldn’t manage bigger. Small as in I don’t want a room full of people watching me do the most important thing I’ve ever done.”
She was at the kitchen table with Ada across from her and a notebook between them and tea going cold and the specific energy of two women who had been friends for fifteen years approaching a task together.
Ada had a pen. She was using it.
“Define small,” Ada said.
“The people in this apartment. Eleanor. You and James. Ruth if she wants to come.”
“Ruth.”
“She went to war for me,” Cloe said. “She gets an invitation.”
Ada wrote Ruth’s name and looked at her. “That’s nine people including Dave and Sophia.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very small.”
“I know.”
Ada looked at the list. Then at Cloe.
“What about J
