My parents forced me to cook and clean all weekend for my sister’s party with 50 guests.
PART 3
At 7:18 p.m., someone knocked on my apartment door.
I looked through the peephole and saw Madison standing in the hallway with mascara streaked beneath both eyes. Her silver party dress sparkled under the cheap ceiling light, but her face was pale and scared.
For one moment, I almost felt sorry for her.
Then she pounded on the door.
“Emily, open up!”
I opened it but kept the chain locked.
Madison’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“What do you want?”
She glanced over her shoulder, embarrassed even in an empty hallway. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
That was new. Madison usually expected doors to open, chairs to be pulled out, and attention to rearrange itself around her.
“Emily,” she whispered, “you have to fix this.”
I laughed once. Not loudly. Not happily. Just enough to make her flinch.
“Fix what?”
“Mom’s crying in the bathroom. Dad is outside with Mr. Hale, trying to explain. Everyone heard them arguing. Aunt Rebecca left. The caterer isn’t coming because apparently Mom canceled them after saying you would handle the food. Half the guests are asking what happened.”
I tilted my head. “Sounds like the party became unforgettable.”Food
Madison clutched her tiny purse with both hands. “Please don’t do this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You called him.”
“I called my boss to explain why I canceled a business dinner.”
Her face tightened. “You should have told us he was your boss.”
I stared at her.
