“Thereyou are!” Mom’s voice startles me so much, I jump away from Wesley.“Hello, Wesley dear. I was just talking to your mother and she toldme what you’ve been up to this week. I’m so glad you made it backin time for the party.”
Wesley gives Mom atight smile. “I wouldn’t miss it, Eleanor. I was actually justabout to fill Evie in on where I was today.”
Mom looks betweenthe two of us before her gaze settles on Wesley. Somethingincomprehensible passes between the two of them, and she nods. “Ofcourse, dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait just a little whilelonger. I need our Evelyn for the cake cutting rightnow.”
Wesley opens hismouth as if to object, but snaps it shut again immediately. Heknows better than to argue with Eleanor Hathaway.
Mom’s gaze swingsto me. Her expression morphs into one I know all too well. It’s alook that tells me her habit of meddling and matchmaking is onethat’s going to die a slow, drawn-out death.
“Youknow, I wish the two of you would get together already. Your motheragrees with me, Wesley; in fact, we were just talking about itbefore you arrived. It was clear from the time you two werechildren that you were meant to be.” She makes a tutting noise asshe shakes her head, looking for all the world like a mother who’sdisappointed in her small children for being naughty. “Anyway,Evelyn, I really do need you for the cake cutting.”
She spins on herimpossibly high heels without so much as a wobble, and heads forthe door, beckoning for me to follow her.
I gather all mycourage and look at Wesley. He appears as stunned as I feel. We’reboth apparently rooted to the spot since neither of us has made anyattempt to follow my mother.
“Wow,”he breathes. “Meant to be. That’s…”
“I’m sosorry,” I blurt. “She and I have talked about this, but, well,you’ve known her your whole life, you know what she’s like. Shepromised she’d stay out of my love life from now on, but I have afeeling if I’m not married in another few years, I’ll be dealingwith an arranged marriage situation, giving new meaning to the term‘shotgun wedding’.”
Iexpect Wesley to laugh. Maybe crack a joke of his own. WhatIdon’texpect isthe way he slowly turns to face me fully, taking both my hands inhis. Or the way he gazes into my eyes in a way he never has before.A way that makes my breath catch as butterflies soar to life insideme and perform acrobatics in the vicinity of my heart.
“Shemay be meddling, but I can’t fault her for thinking we’re meant tobe. I always thought that too.”
I gape at Wesley.Have the bubbles from the prosecco gone to my head or did I hearhim correctly? I don’t have a chance to question it before Elliotbustles into the room and informs me my mother expects me to makean appearance within the next thirty seconds.
I swallow a stringof frustrated curses. Wesley squeezes my hands and then gently letsthem drop. My whole body has gone numb, so I’d forgotten he waseven holding them.
“Go,”he says. “We have all night to talk. I’m not goinganywhere.”
In the livingroom, Mom’s tense smile eases when she sees me, turning into onethat shines with affection and pride. My dad stands next to herwith his hand on the small of her back, his smile a mirror image ofmy mom’s. As the assembled crowd sings a rousing rendition of thebirthday song, I glance around, my eyes catching on familiar facesbefore landing on a small grouping of easels holding framed posterboards with pictures of me throughout the years.
The song ends andDad steps forward, kissing my cheek before handing me a knife. Withthe weight of dozens of eyes on me, a hint of embarrassment heatsmy cheeks as I cut into the cake and then hand the knife off to oneof the catering staff, who begins cutting and plating slices ofcake with impressive efficiency.
Reminding myselfthis will be my last big, impersonal birthday party, I take theglass of prosecco my dad offers me and hold it up, facing thecrowd. Every year except for this one, Mom has asked me to make aspeech, and every year I’ve refused. I’ve told her it’s bad enoughthat she trots me out like a trick pony, expecting me to make agrand entrance and cut the cake in front of everyone like apartnerless bride.
Butthis year feels different. Mom has made so much effort this week.Even though I’ve never felt like these parties are forme, she still puts a lotof work into them, and I know she’s always meant well even if shehas a habit of going about things in the wrong way. When I think ofHollie, whose mother abandoned her nearly twenty years ago, orLousia, whose sweet, beautiful mom died shortly before that, itreminds me just how lucky I am to have my mom, even if shecanbe overbearing andmeddlesome. She’s always been here, and I’ve never doubted her lovefor me.
I clear my throatand swallow a wave of emotion. “Thank you all for being heretonight,” I say, projecting my voice so everyone can hear me. “Itmeans so much that you’re all here to celebrate my birthday withme. I’d especially like to thank my parents for hosting theseparties each year.” I turn to Mom and Dad, smiling at their beamingfaces as they salute me with their glasses.
I seek out myfriends next, my smile stretching when I see Wesley standing besideStella with his arm around her shoulders. “And I’d like to thank myfour dearest friends for…well, for a lifetime of loving me andbeing by my side.” I quickly divert my gaze, afraid looking at themwill make me cry. “I hope you all enjoy the rest of the party.Cheers.”
The crowd echoesmy ‘cheers’, throwing in a smattering of other well wishes. Thevoices fade into muddled sounds as my eyes lock on Wesley’s. Helifts his glass in my direction, a smile flirting around the edgesof his mouth. I only make it one step in his direction before ahand settles on my arm.
“You’rejust full of surprises today,” Mom says.
“GuessI learned from the best.” I clink my glass against hers and thenpoint toward the framed poster boards. “Where did those comefrom?”
With her handstill on my arm, Mom skillfully weaves us through the crowd ofpeople who are now enjoying slices of cake. We stop in front of themakeshift photo gallery, and I let out a delighted laugh as Iexamine the pictures.
“Wesleyand the girls helped me put them together this week,” Momsays.
The photos rangefrom me as a roly-poly baby to shots with my parents and paternalgrandparents to pictures of me and the girls—and Wesley—over thelast three-plus decades. I remember Wesley mentioning lookingthrough old photos the other day. I scan the boards until my gazelands on a Poloroid of me leaning against a moustachioed Wesley,who has his arm locked tightly around my shoulders.
Mom taps the glassover the photo I’m looking at. “Have you always known?”
“Knownwhat?”
“Thathe loves you?”
