Brooke always sent actual paper invitations for her end-of-summer party, which Rebecca had to admit was classy. Most people believed that paper invitations deserved to go the way of the milk truck and earbuds with wires. Even so, when she opened the envelope her stomach clenched and she let out an involuntary Ugh.
Last year she had skipped the party altogether, and had been excused because she was still technically in mourning. This year, mourning would be a harder sell. But she didn’t want to go alone. She was tired of going places alone. She wanted to bring Daniel. At the same time, she didn’t want to bring Daniel.
Rebecca could write the script for the whole evening right now. There would be a signature cocktail that people would drink too fast. Eventually, some drunk husband would jump in the pool. There would be at least one scene of marital discord—or possibly two. An unhashed-through argument between friends might make its way to the surface.
Brooke’s children would watch all of the madness from their bedrooms windows, and the sight would cement in their minds the image of adults behaving badly, which they would then lay out as part of their defense when they were caught drinking or vaping weed in high school or (God forbid) middle school.
On a more positive note, the food would be superb, and there would be dancing.
Was that a positive note, though? Did anybody really need to see people over forty shaking it on the dance floor? Well, it was a note anyway.
I’ll be there! She hesitated, then scrawled on the card, Plus one.