Page 103 of Shattered Promise

I focus on buttering a roll. Carefully, methodically. Like it’s a task I know I can get right.

Mom’s in hostess mode, pouring water into mismatched glasses, telling Dad to sit up straight or he’s going to get indigestion, nudging Beau about something he left in her garage. She reaches across the table to pat my hand, fingers light but insistent.

“Abby, honey, I was going over the calendar with Marilyn from my gardening club, and we’re both so excited about your fall fundraiser,” she says. “Have you finalized the menu yet? I told her that the caterer you used last year was just divine. Those little tarts with the goat cheese?So good. I can’t wait to attend again this year.”

My shoulders hitch, but I force a smile. “It’s still in the works.”

“Oh, and you’ll keep the silent auction, right? I’m hoping your father and I will get lucky this year. Wouldn’t it be fun to vacation at a lake house, Lucas?” Mom asks, beaming across the table to Dad.

“Anything is fun when I’m with you, sweetheart,” Dad says with a genuine grin.

“God, ugh. Some of us are trying to eat here,” Beau faux-grumbles with a smirk on his face.

Cora tips her glass toward me without a word, and I know it’s a commiserating sort of acknowledgment. But it’s the kind that stays quiet. I love my sister, but I know how hard she’s had to work to keep Mom out of her bakery the last couple of years, so I don’t see her jumping in to rescue me any time soon.

I keep chewing, but the roll turns to paste in my mouth. I chase it down with a sip of water, the taste of yeast and salt lingering bitter at the back of my tongue. Across the table, Mason watches me with a careful sort of attention, one hand steady behind Theo’s highchair, the other palming a sippy cup to keep it from flying off the table. He doesn’t join in the conversation—just lets the noise tumble around him, eyes darting to me every few seconds like he’s checking the tension on a line only the two of us can see.

Vivie launches into a passionate monologue about her school’s upcoming science fair, her hands flailing dangerously close to the salad bowl.

Theo’s already got a breadstick mashed to a pulp in one fist, and it’s only a matter of time before it becomes a projectile. Mason intercepts the mess with practiced ease, flicking a napkin from his lap and dabbing at Theo’s mouth with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten.

Mom’s voice cuts in again, a little too bright. “You’re already working on the next event, right?” Mom asks, beaming like it’s a compliment. “I mean, of course you are, what am I saying. You only have like a couple of months left.”

Mason shifts in his seat. I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me.

Something behind my ribs curls inward, brittle with pressure. I place the roll back on my plate and flatten my palms to my thighs. The prickling beneath my skin intensifies—a swarm of bees in my marrow. I want to scream, but I’ve never raised my voice at this table, not once in my entire life.

I don’t even know what it would sound like.

“Yeah, Mom,” I say, and the words come out clipped, the consonants too sharp. “I’m working on it.”

She latches onto the answer, her hands fluttering as she turns to Francesca. “Did you know Abby’s last fundraiser broke a regional record? Just incredible. She’s on the fast track, climbing that corporate ladder. You know, if you ever need an event manager for the bookstore, I bet Abby would do it for a reasonable price.”

“Mom,” I cut in, my cheeks growing pink.

“Oh, honey,” Mom says with a laugh. “She knows I’m only joking, don’t you, Francesca? We all know you wouldn’t charge her for that. You’d do it because you love to plan events.”

Francesca laughs, but it’s that nervous kind of laughter that sounds like a grimaced chuckle.

The table vibrates with conversation, but it doesn’t touch me. It feels like I’m watching through thick glass, the worldhappening one room over. I can see the way Mason leans forward, mouth barely parted like he’s ready to jump in, he’s just waiting for my signal.

It makes me feel brave.

I set my water down and look straight at my mother, surprised by the calm in my own voice. “Actually, I don’t.”

Mom’s face softens, confusion tilting her brow. “You don’t what, honey?”

“I don’t love planning events. And I won’t be planning the fundraiser in the fall or any other one.”

The table stills. Not all at once—just a gradual, domino hush as my words leak outward.

“I’m not doing any of it,” I say, a little louder. “Because I quit my job.”

Cora’s fork clinks against her plate. Beau lets out a low, appreciative whistle and leans back in his chair. And Graham just stares at me over his glass.

My mother’s face does a strange thing: it empties, the usual animation draining out. She blinks at me, glances at Cora, then at Dad, as if she’s making sure she heard what she thinks she heard.

“You . . .quit?” The word lands in the center of the table. It’s not angry, just so stunned it hangs there, vibrating.

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