I wriggle uncomfortably on the stoop at Emma’s house on Saturday after ringing the bell to their loft. Stag family dinner is usually at Tim and Alice’s house, and it’s usually on Sunday, but Emma and Thatcher are hosting a birthday party for their oldest kid, Wesley.
I can never decide if I’m supposed to just go up or wait to be greeted. If this were a normal day at Emma and Thatcher’s house, I’d let myself in and help myself to her cheese drawer. But her parents are probably up there, and my boss. Years of growing up in Madeline Kennedy’s household, with her cold, rigid manners, are hard to shake.
Sometimes I think I’m extra crass on purpose just as an added ‘f**k you’ to my prim mother. I shake my shoulders and shove the door open, adjusting my grip on the gift bag I’m carrying, and
