Chapter Eight: A Toast To Erasure

                                        

                                              

The house was already overflowing by the time we pulled up, our footsteps crunching over a carpet of frost on the stone path. Golden light poured from the towering windows like honey, pooling across the lawn, gilding the frozen hedges. From inside, laughter spilled out—muffled, melodic, like a song I used to know by heart but couldn't quite remember. Thomas and I stood at the threshold longer than we should have, silence thick between us, our breath misting in the cold. Then he reached for the handle and opened the door.
It was like stepping into a snow globe—too perfect, too still beneath the motion. Everything glowed: candles flickered in crystal holders, string lights coiled like vines around the white columns, and soft jazz danced just below the surface of the hum of voices. Jeanine, Thomas' mother,  had curated every detail with her usual precision, from the hors d'oeuvres on polished silver trays to the pine-scented garlands draped over the mantel. But beauty can be a kind of trap, too. Beneath the shimmer, something colder slithered through the air—tight and unseen, like piano wire pulled taut.
James, his father, stood at the center of it all like a monarch holding court, his glass raised high, his laughter louder than it needed to be. The scotch had already painted his cheeks the color of old brick, and he was performing now—flashing teeth, cutting jokes, casting shadows with charm that bruised as it passed. He had that way about him. The kind of charisma that fills the room until there's no room left for anyone else.
Someone tossed Jeanine a compliment—her dress maybe, or her hair. I didn't catch it. But James did. He turned to her with that smirk I've always hated and boomed, "Oh, she scrubs up alright when she puts her mind to it. I always say she's like an old car—takes a while to get going, but once she's running, you remember why you married her."
Laughter followed. Polite, brittle. The kind of laughter that tries to smooth over discomfort and fails. Jeanine smiled, because she had to. Not the kind of smile that reaches the eyes—this one was small, controlled, a mask she'd worn too many times to misplace now.
After a while, she came.
Laura swept into the room like a gust of perfume and noise—head high, lips glossy, smile gleaming like a weapon. She didn't hesitate, didn't pause to greet anyone else. Her eyes locked on Thomas like he was the only light in the room, and she made a beeline straight for him.
"Tommy!" she trilled, wrapping him in an embrace before anyone could think to stop her. Her voice was syrupy sweet, thick with intention. She kissed his cheek—delicate, rehearsed, calculated—and then pulled back just enough to smile up at him like he was a miracle she'd just stumbled upon.

Tommy?
"How are you doing?"
Thomas stepped back, polite, his expression unreadable. I watched his hand hover near her arm, unsure whether to welcome or deflect. He chose nothing.
Then Laura turned to me, all sunshine and sharp edges.
"October," she said with a practiced brightness. "You look so cozy. I love how you're not afraid to be comfortable. It's very... grounded."
Before I could reply, she was already turning back to Thomas, like I was an afterthought, a prop in the background of her scene.
"Your husband," she breathed, resting a hand lightly on his forearm, "has been so kind to me lately. Really. He made me feel like I belong—like I'm part of the family already." She laughed, low and intimate, like they shared a secret. 
She turned back to me then, all sparkle and false sincerity. "You're so lucky, October. He really is something special. The kind of man who just... understands women."