Then she announced a big backyard barbecue for the whole neighborhood.
Irvin received an invitation.
I didn’t.
Part Four: The Gift Box
He showed it to me at the kitchen counter. It was a cream-colored card with gold lettering and his name written on the envelope in looping handwriting. Just his name.
“I’m not going,” he said, tossing it down.
I picked it up and read it. Then I looked out the window toward Vanessa’s house, with its perfect hanging flower baskets and the patio she’d had him re-level last month.
I thought about the pickle jar. The smoke detector. The shelf that moved left and then right again. The lightbulbs and the loose handles and every helpless little emergency she’d invented just to borrow my husband for an afternoon.
And an idea clicked into place.
“Actually,” I said, “I think you should go.”
Irvin stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “Why?”
