Page 18 of October
He knocked again. "Can we talk? It's about my father's birthday."
I opened the door and kept waiting for him to speak:
"Hey," he said. I didn't answer. I just waited.
There was a pause, then a deep breath. "Father invited us to dinner. You, me, the kids. And... Laura."
I froze. My fingers clenched slightly around the door frame.
"I didn't invite her," he added quickly. "I swear, it was his idea. She's just... coming."
Still, I said nothing.
"She thought we should get him something. A gift," he continued, trying too hard to sound casual. "Like... work-related. That's why she called. Just to suggest it."
I looked at him. My voice came out level, flat. "A gift. You and her. Like a couple thing."
His face collapsed into panic. "No—no, October. That's not what I meant. Not even close. I mean... my dad loves that wine decanter set on his desk, right? Laura thought we could get himone of those, customized. With the firm's logo etched into the glass. That's all. It's just business. It's nothing else."
Just business. Sure. He must've seen something in my eyes, because he rushed to explain further.
"I didn't say yes," he said. "I didn't agree to anything. I was waiting to talk to you first. But it feels like... you already have it in your head that something's going on between me and her—"
And that was the moment the anger bubbled over.
"Have it in my head?That's what you're going with now?" I snapped.
He flinched like the words hit him. Maybe they did. He looked cornered, like someone who knew they were treading too close to something fragile and sacred and already cracked. Then I just stepped forward and slowly pulled the door back between us. My voice was quiet. Final. "Do whatever feels right, Thomas."
I closed the door again. He stood on the other side for a few seconds, maybe hoping I'd open it back up. But I didn't. Neither of us could have imagined how much that birthday party would change everything.
We were walking into a celebration. But we had no idea it would become a reckoning.
Chapter Eight: A Toast To Erasure
The house was already overflowing by the time we pulled up, our footsteps crunching over a carpet of frost on the stone path. Golden light poured from the towering windows like honey, pooling across the lawn, gilding the frozen hedges. From inside, laughter spilled out, muffled, melodic, like a song I used to know by heart but couldn't quite remember. Thomas and I stood at the threshold longer than we should have, silence thick between us, our breath misting in the cold. Then he reached for the handle and opened the door.
It was like stepping into a snow globe, too perfect, too still beneath the motion. Everything glowed: candles flickered in crystal holders, string lights coiled like vines around the white columns, and soft jazz danced just below the surface of the hum of voices. Jeanine, Thomas' mother, had curated every detail with her usual precision, from the hors d'oeuvres on polished silver trays to the pine-scented garlands draped over the mantel. But beauty can be a kind of trap, too. Beneath the shimmer, something colder slithered through the air—tight and unseen, like piano wire pulled taut.
James, his father, stood at the center of it all like a monarch holding court, his glass raised high, his laughter louder than it needed to be. The scotch had already painted his cheeks the color of old brick, and he was performing now—flashing teeth, cutting jokes, casting shadows with charm that bruised as it passed. He had that way about him. The kind of charisma that fills the room until there's no room left for anyone else.
Someone tossed Jeanine a compliment—her dress maybe, or her hair. I didn't catch it. But James did. He turned to her with that smirk I've always hated and boomed, "Oh, she scrubs up alright when she puts her mind to it. I always say she's like an old car—takes a while to get going, but once she's running, you remember why you married her."
Laughter followed. Polite, brittle. The kind of laughter that tries to smooth over discomfort and fails. Jeanine smiled, because she had to. Not the kind of smile that reaches the eyes—this one was small, controlled, a mask she'd worn too many times to misplace now.
After a while, she came.
Laura swept into the room like a gust of perfume and noise—head high, lips glossy, smile gleaming like a weapon. She didn't hesitate, didn't pause to greet anyone else. Her eyes locked on Thomas like he was the only light in the room, and she made a beeline straight for him.
"Tommy!" she trilled, wrapping him in an embrace before anyone could think to stop her. Her voice was syrupy sweet, thick with intention. She kissed his cheek—delicate, rehearsed, calculated—and then pulled back just enough to smile up at him like he was a miracle she'd just stumbled upon.
Tommy?
"How are you doing?"
Thomas stepped back, polite, his expression unreadable. I watched his hand hover near her arm, unsure whether to welcome or deflect. He chose nothing. Then Laura turned to me, all sunshine and sharp edges.
"October," she said with a practiced brightness. "You look so cozy. I love how you're not afraid to be comfortable. It's very... grounded."
