4. The Toast
The reception was held in the grand ballroom of the country club. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, celebratory glow over the massive floral centerpieces and the hundreds of guests laughing and clinking champagne glasses.
The atmosphere was electric, joyous, and loud.
Unless, of course, you looked at table number one.
My parents sat stiffly in their chairs, shooting bewildered, terrified glances toward the head table where Ethan and I sat. The whispers had ripped through my extended family’s tables like wildfire the moment the ceremony ended. Google searches had been frantically conducted in the bathrooms. The truth was out. Hannah hadn’t married a logistics clerk; she had married a titan of industry.
But the most pathetic sight in the room was Claire.
She sat shriveled in her chair, making herself as physically small as possible. The confident, arrogant woman who had insulted my dress three hours ago was entirely gone. She hadn’t touched her dinner. Her hand trembled so badly she didn’t dare pick up her wine glass. She kept her eyes glued to the tablecloth, terrified to look up, terrified to make eye contact with anyone, especially the groom.
As the dinner plates were cleared, the band stopped playing. The room quieted down as Ethan stood up from his chair at the center of the head table.
