have told you is there are a whole other set of rules when you go from a me to a we,” said Rosalie.
“Yay,” I deadpanned.
Mila and I stifled a laugh.
“For example,” she continued, “when you introduce yourself as a family, you start with the oldest member first. Introduce your grandfather before you introduce your father and both of them before your son.
“When hosting an event, it’s polite to send an invitation to all members of your and your spouse’s extended family. This holds true even if you don’t think they can make it or if they don’t like you very much.”
That earned her a round of titters.
“While we’re on the subject of invitations...”
I tuned her out. Nothing personal. I didn’t pay attention to my etiquette teacher either.
Eventually she stopped going on about invitations, greetings, and introductions, and moved on to topics of conversation at the dining table. The good news was she sat down, which gave us permission to start eating.
“If you and your spouse are in the middle of an argument,” she said, “don’t drag your guests into it. His refusal to pick up his socks is not a public discussion, and your guests won’t thank you for making them uncomfortable.”
“Don’t know about that,” Mila said under her breath. “My parents are the reigning champs at subtle comebacks and cutting quips, and their favorite targets are each other. I’m pretty sure people come to our Independence Day bash every year just to witness their fireworks.”
I made a face. “Is it that bad?”
“Oh yeah. It’s a good thing I know a healthy marriage is two people who love each other to bits but underneath can’t stand each other. I’ll be prepared for the rest of life’s contradictions.”
“That reminds me of the dame—my mom,” I explained. “I went through what history has dubbed my print period. Lots of funky designs with fruit, cartoon characters, stars, whatever I thought of. I went to a wedding rehearsal wearing a dress covered with bananas, a galaxy jacket, and a blue headwrap.
“The mother of the bride told me I looked like a circus act. The dame came out of nowhere, told her I looked amazing and she’d be able to tell if that supermarket fragrance she was trying to pass off as Chanel No. 5 wasn’t making her eyes water.”
“Oh, shit,” Mila gasped.
“The best part is she hated that outfit and practically begged me not to wear it. If anything will make my mom go full contradiction, it’s someone getting in my face.”
“She’s badass.”
“Hello,” Delilah snapped. “Some of us are trying to listen.”
“You’d be able to hear better if you sat somewhere else.”
She rolled her eyes.
What? I thought that was a perfectly reasonable suggestion.
The staff streamed in, cleared our empty plates, and replaced them with turtle cheesecake and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
“It’s so much harder to hate this place when the food is this good,” I said.
“Tell me about it.”
I raised a brow. “Do I detect a fellow captive?”
Mila laughed around a mouthful of cake. “I wouldn’t call myself that. I chose to come, but it wasn’t to pick up a husband. All of my friends are here and it’s our last summer together before we go to college. I couldn’t miss out.”
“I get it. When you put aside the counseling and mini-dates, this is a great place to spend the summer. Snorkeling was amazing.”
“Wasn’t it?” Mila swept away an ash-brown strand that stuck to her lips. Mila was a pretty girl. Strictly speaking—with those big brown eyes, heart-shaped face, and teasing smile—she was a siren. I wouldn’t hold that against her, though. “I’ve never done anything like that. Might take up scuba diving after this.”
“Why wait? I bet we could find an instructor in town who’ll take us out. Want to go together?”
She beamed. “I’d love to.”
“Ahem.” Rosalie cut into our conversation. “Girls, if I could have your attention, please.”
“Sorry,” we said.
“As I was saying,” Rosalie continued, “it’s standard to sit across from your partner, instead of side by side. Communicating face-to-face is much better than craning your neck around. Also, it’s easier to share dessert.”
“Is it? Want to slide some of that over here?” I asked. “I’m going through my ice cream quick.”
“Yeah,” said Mila. “It’s the cheesecake I want. Ice cream is all yours.”
We leaned in, digging through each other’s plates. Out of the corner of my eye, Delilah reached for a napkin.
My glass banged on my plate, showering my food in cider and spilling it over the rim. I