"Take Secretary Winfield back to the city first. He's got work in the morning, so drive carefully."
She tacked on one more thing.
"Text me when you get there."
Henry climbed into the car with the brocade box cradled in his arms, waving at us through the window.
Behind me, two of my aunts dropped their voices.
"He's only been at the company a year, hasn't he? How does he get to come to a family dinner?"
"Right? She takes him everywhere. Anyone watching would think she was showing off a—"
The moment they caught sight of me, the words cut off.
I pretended I hadn't heard, bending down to stack the plates one by one.
The drive back to the city was a long one.
Molly leaned against the back seat with her eyes closed, resting, the glow of her phone screen flickering across her face.
Not a word the whole way.
In the elevator, she slipped the phone back into her pocket.
"Don't take today to heart."
She watched the floor numbers tick upward, her tone light.
"Putting the ring on in front of a hall full of relatives, it's like a stage act. I didn't want anything that forced."
"A thing like that only counts if I slip it onto your finger myself, at our own engagement party."
"Once I'm through this busy stretch."
Once.
How many times she'd said that word over seven years, I never counted.
I only knew the ring had worn a deep groove into Grandpa's finger.
It had never once been on mine.
The elevator arrived, and I stepped out ahead of her.
"Molly, I'm tired."
"What kind of petty man spends all day sulking? Of course you're tired."
At that, my hands stopped moving.
Whatever churned inside me, all that was left was silence.
Once we were through the door, Molly spoke up out of nowhere.
"I know the ring today left you unhappy."
"It's nothing to make a fuss about. One ring. I'll make it up to you ten times over later."
She pulled off her coat and tossed it into my arms, then gave the order.
"Seven a.m. flight tomorrow, a meeting with the overseas investment bank, three days and two nights. Don't forget to pack my bag."
She didn't wait for me to agree. She was already on the couch answering messages.
She didn't need me to agree.
Every time she traveled, I was the one who packed the suitcase.
Silk blouses in the anti-wrinkle bag, melatonin in the outer pocket where it was easy to reach.
"Oh, right."
She looked up from her phone, the smile still on her face.
"Bring a box of stomach medicine too. Henry's been under the weather these last few days, and he insists on flying along. Stubborn as anything."
"Last time his stomach hurt so badly he was breaking out in a cold sweat, and he still gritted his teeth and finished checking the bid documents before he'd go to the hospital."
She shook her head, smiling. "That kid. Stubborn as a mule."
Watching her face soften like that, I suddenly thought back to not long ago.
To land that deal for her, I'd fielded drink after drink at the table.
The other side toasted twelve times in a row.
She'd sat beside me, smiling, answering for me. "Our Derek here can hold his liquor."
That was the only time in seven years she ever said "ours."
I drank until my stomach bled and got carried into an ambulance.
Three days in the hospital, and she came only once.
After a hurried glance at me, she turned and went off to visit Henry, who was hospitalized for a cat allergy.
All she left me was one line.
"Busy. Don't disturb me."
That night, my appendix flared up.
The nurse stood there with the surgical consent form, asking for a family member's signature.
Through the pain I called her, but the line was busy the whole time.
Just as I was about to call the company, a text popped up.
"Busy. Don't disturb me."
The name that finally went into the signature line was my own.
Crooked and uneven.
The pain was so bad I couldn't even hold the pen steady.
So it turned out she wasn't incapable of tenderness.
There were only so many spots on her list of people to pity, and I never made it onto one.
"Your own bag—"
