cousinâs husband.
âNothingâs wrong, Iâm just tired,â Mona says, flattening her cake to a paste with a heavy silver spoon. âI filed a late story last night.â
Connor nods and scrapes fondant frosting from his plate with a fork. Licking the edge, he seems closer to twelve than twenty-two.
âHowâs school going?â Mona leans forward to talk to him better. A few years ago, she used to hate Jackâs brother, seeing him as bizarre competition for Jackâs affections. But she likes him now, and Jack is ignoring him, too.
âSame old, same old,â Connor says, too quickly.
If he were her responsibility, sheâd pry, but he isnât. For almost three years after their mother died, he was legally Jackâs ward, but tonight Connor is drinking wine, reminding them heâs old enough now, that he belongs to no one.
âHow come the only time anyone ever eats phyllo dough is at a wedding?â he asks.
âBecause phyllo dough isnât very good.â Jack eases back in his chair, back into her conversation with his brother. Itâs as if he finally remembered they were there, remembered the appellate cousin made a comment about Monaâs hair not being natural, remembered Connor has been dodging questions about his post-graduation plans all night.
âNo, phyllo dough actually sucks,â Connor says. âWe should order a pizza later.â
In nearly identical black suits, Jack and Connor are a matched pair. If Mona had to give a police artist details to make sketches of them, sheâs not sure the descriptions would be very differentâbushy eyebrows, black eyes, cheekbones high and broad. But Jackâs nose is straighter, and Connor is thinner. They have the same dark hair, cut almost the same wayâlonger in the frontâbut Connorâs doesnât part evenly in the middle, and heâs not nearly as comfortable with his long arms and legs.
âPizzaâs fine,â Jack says. âWhatever you want, kid.â
âYou in on the pizza action?â Connor asks Mona.
âSure,â she says, distracted by Jackâs ex-girlfriend swaying in the arms of her doctor husband on the dance floor.
AnnaââAnnaFram,â as Connor calls her, squishing together her first and maiden name as if it were one wordâis the rare woman who looks good pregnant, olive skin flawless, shiny dark hair piled on her head in a way thatâs somehow casual and elegant. Looking at Annaâs swollen round breasts, Mona yanks up the front of her own dress, wonders what possessed her to think her B-cup boobs could support the black strapless.
Annaâs sister is the bride. A cute girl, Carrie has wilted since the ceremonyâwithout the veil, her updo looks weird and her lips have paled from reception-line kisses and chicken in puff pastry. Still, she and her groom look happy, dancing and giving warm nods to each new pair to join them on the floor. The song is familiar, yet Mona canât quite place itâsomething from crepe-paper-covered OU formals.
âPlease dance with me.â Mona reaches for Jackâs fingers on the table. âJust this one song.â
âI really canât dance.â He clasps her hand between his and smiles at Mona, but also at the couple across the table. âBest just to accept it as a character flaw.â
âJack.â Even as she whines his name, she realizes sheâs whining and that she probably shouldnât. She probably
is
drunk. âItâs just your friends.â
âHappy or sad?â Jack asks.
Itâs a game they play, based on a bookmark they saw at the University Hospital gift shop when Jackâs brother broke his shoulder in a biking accident four summers before. The bookmark offered a series of questions, the first one being âAre you happy or sad?â If you answered happy, it proclaimed you had nothing to worry about. At the
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