I look at myself in the mirror and recognize her. She's put together on purpose. She likes how she looks. She's not armoring up or making excuses.
I grab my purse, take a long breath, lock the door behind me, and head to Dad's.
When I get there, the noise is loud enough that I can feel the floorboards vibrate under my sandals.
His birthday parties always sound like someone dropped a microphone into a barrel full of yelling uncles.
Old friends crowd the living room with red cheeks and loud voices. Beer bottles clink against tabletops.
Someone accidentally elbows the light switch and plunges half the room into dim chaos before turning it back on again.
Classic Carter gathering.
Moving through the bodies with a tray of snacks, I try not to drop anything.
I'm twenty-three, which is an age where I should feel young and glowing and full of promise. Instead, I feel like one giant exposed nerve with fresh breakup energy.
My ex left me with a long list of insecurities and a short list of reasons to trust anyone.
The dress doesn't help.
The confidence I felt earlier is gone, and my brain keeps whispering that I look soft in the wrong places and not soft in the right ones. I tell the brain to shut up, but she keeps talking.
Dad circles through the crowd like a politician who forgot his own platform.
Every time he finds me, he introduces me to someone he swears I remember.
I don't.
There's a man with a huge mustache insisting he taught me how to whistle when I was five.
Another guy swears he used to give me piggyback rides. I smile and nod and pretend I have any idea who these people are.
I push through toward the kitchen for a refill, the tray getting lighter by the second.
Someone tells me I've grown into a beautiful young lady.
Someone else tells me I should think about saving for retirement.
Men are strange.
The house smells like roasted garlic, beer foam, and the same cologne Dad has worn since the dawn of time.
Voices rise and fall in waves. Laughter roars from the dining room. A football game flashes silently on the TV.
It's overwhelming, but also familiar in a way that feels painfully nostalgic and oddly comforting at the same time.
I'm stepping around a man showing someone a picture of his fishing boat when the front door opens.
Something shifts, but subtly, no drama. It's more like an energy change headed straight for me. I turn toward the doorway.
Gabe Holt walks in.
For a moment, I forget how to hold the tray. My grip slips and I clutch it tighter before disaster hits the floor.
Gabe has always existed in my life like a faint outline. Nothing prepared me for the real man standing in our doorway now.
He'stall.
