"I will spend my life protecting you."
Immigration Aid Center, almost ten at night. I'd walked out to find him leaning against the doorframe, grinning, holding my favorite mango crepe.
In the few seconds I spent crouched on that floor gathering papers, I ran through the last few years at high speed. So fast my heart couldn't keep up before it was over.
The ballroom erupted. Everyone watched the couple under the spotlight. Diana extended her hand. Paul slid the ring onto her finger, inch by inch. Stood. They looked at each other and smiled, bathed in golden light like a magazine cover.
Then Paul's gaze cut through the crowd, over the gowns and champagne glasses, and landed in my direction. Between us, a vacuum opened up. Sound disappeared.
He saw me. Something shifted in his expression—just for a second, almost invisible. Guilt, maybe. Something else. It flickered across his face, then he crushed it down until nothing showed. Then he turned back to Diana and smiled.
Honestly, in that moment, I wanted to walk right up and slap him. But I didn't. I just stood there, gripping the folder so hard it hurt my hand. My heart hurt too.
The lucky thing: I didn't miss a single word of the translation work. Six rounds of dialogue, switching between Italian and English. Legal terms, business phrasing. The Rossi family lawyer spoke fast, with a heavy Sicilian accent, but I kept up perfectly. One hundred percent accuracy. It was the only thing I could control tonight.
Diana rose from the main table, making the rounds. When she reached the Rossi elders, she kissed Mrs. Rossi's cheek. Straightened. Her eyes landed on me.
"This is tonight's translator," Mrs. Rossi said. "Boston University, language major. Very solid."
Diana smiled at me—not malicious, which somehow felt worse. It was a smile that didn't see you at all. Looking down from above. Certain.
"Very professional," she said. Then turned back to Mrs. Rossi and kept talking.
Paul sat at the main table. When Diana returned to her seat, he leaned in and said something. She laughed, resting her head affectionately on his shoulder. He didn't look over.
Mrs. Rossi raised her champagne and clinked glasses with an old friend. "These two kids—perfect match. Same world, same caliber. That's what real compatibility looks like."
I looked down, forced myself to write something in the margin of my folder. The pen scraped across paper, one stroke at a time, slow. Like I could use this to anchor myself here, in this moment, in this job—instead of drifting toward places I absolutely could not let myself go right now.
After the translation work ended, the assistant handed me an envelope. I thanked her, gathered my materials, and headed for the exit.
The party continued. The dance floor had opened, the lights dimmed, and a slow Italian song was spilling from the speakers.
I had to walk past the dance floor. The exit was in that direction. No other way out.
On the floor, Paul and Diana swayed together. Her head on his shoulder, that ring glinting softly in the warm light. His hand on her back. No space between them. Two puzzle pieces that always fit.
I kept walking. Eyes on the floor. At the hallway corner, I leaned against the wall. Closed my eyes. Stood there in the dark for a while.
Something heavy and dull sat in my chest, trying to push up but stuck, going nowhere.
Then I pulled out my phone, opened my conversation with Paul, and looked at this morning's text one more time. Put the phone away. Started for home.
At the hotel entrance, I realized it was pouring. And I hadn't brought an umbrella. So I turned back into the lobby, found a quiet corner near the potted plants in the sitting area, and sat down. Ordered hot tea.
The tea came. White porcelain cup. Dark amber liquid. Steam rising.
I wrapped both hands around it. My palms felt hot. My heart felt frozen.
Music still drifted from the ballroom. That same slow Italian song, low and drawn-out, like something sinking quietly in the distance.
I sat on that couch for a long time. Until the music stopped. Until the rain stopped. Then I finally put the cup back on the tray and stood.
Walking through the Four Seasons revolving door, Boston's night wind hit me full in the face, stripping away every trace of champagne and designer perfume.
The wind cut cold. I pulled my coat tight and stood on the steps for a moment.
Sniffed once. Then said to myself: Happy birthday, Casey White.
