Page 62 of All We Need

WhenClairegets choked up talking about her late husband, he swoops in, tucking her under his arm and asking everyone to raise a glass for his dad, andJohannaandHarriet’smother.

Robotically,Imirror everyone’s movements.

Dessert is passed around andQuinngasps around a mouthful of melomakarona.“Boh, ma gob.Deezare delish.”Sheswallows and gapes at me. “Youhave to share the recipe with me.I’llserve them at the bakery.Oh!Oh!I’llcall them”—she flourishes her hands above her head—“Alessandra’sCookies.”

Dex, whoI’vemet today, coughs into his fist. “Boothwould love a bite of them.”

I take a sip of wine, brushing off the comment, and mentally planningBooth’sdemise.

The chef of the hour has the humility to cower and slumps down in his seat.

My smile is aimed inQuinn’sdirection. “Thankyou.Mycookies always go over well.Peoplelove them so much, they get overexcited.Somemight say…”Iflick my wrist in the air. “Prematurely.”

Water sprays across the table like a geyser.

“What the fuck,Booth?”Florencecries as she wipes her face.

“Florence, language.Booth, behave,”Clairescolds.

It’s like a tennis match.Everyone’seyes bounce back and forth betweenBoothand me.Maybecoming today wasn’t such a bad idea.

But alas,Ispeak too soon.

“My son,”Martinwhispers, carrying on our conversation like it didn’t end almost an hour ago, “hasn’t visited in a while.Hewouldn’t recognize the town if he did.”

The sight of my grandmother’s dessert turns my stomach.

“How old is he?”

Stop,Aly.

He thinks for a few seconds. “He’llbe forty-seven inApril.”

A buzzing drowns out all other voices.

“Do you visit him?”

Shaking his head, he sighs, the sound heavy with contrition. “Hewouldn’t want to see me.”

Don’t push it.Nowisn’t the time.

“I’m sure he misses you.”There’sa slight hitch in the last word, butIpush through.It’snot easy.Morelike running headfirst through a brick wall, only to face another. “Doeshe have a family?”

I watch his shoulders slump with the weight of his guilt.It’swritten plain as day across his face.Why?That’sa questionIcan’t bring myself to ask.

I’ve gone too far.

“I wouldn’t know.”

AndIdon’t want to.

Like a record jumping, the sound of my chair scraping across the hardwood floor silences everyone.

“Excuse me.”I’malready halfway around the table. “Where’sthe bathroom?”

“There’s one at the end of the hallway.”Ibarely catchJohanna’sresponse asIspeed out of the room.

My skin is tight.Throattight.Everythingis tight.

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