Chapter 3: The Dinner Party

After years of hard work in this city, we’ve built a small circle of friends who meet up regularly.

It’s a patchwork crew—engineers, city employees, a couple of local artists, and the rare tech transplant from Seattle who always brings the good wine. Every few months, someone hosts a dinner. It’s our way of pretending we’ve built roots.

Today was one of those days.

The table was crowded with mismatched plates, someone’s homemade mac and cheese bubbling at the center, and the sharp scent of barbecue sauce clinging to the air. As soon as the meal began, everyone gathered around Ethan, praising him for being so young and promising, saying a deputy director’s position was surely in his near future.

People clapped him on the back, half-joking, half-hopeful he’d pull them up the ladder too. I watched him smile politely, his hand never straying far from his glass of iced tea, always the careful listener.

Ethan smiled calmly, maintaining his usual reserved demeanor. He was well-known at the office for his writing and always valued for his abilities, but he kept his distance.

Even here, surrounded by people who admired him, he had the air of someone with one foot out the door—always a guest, never quite a host.

Derek and his wife were there, too.

Someone mentioned them, and the atmosphere instantly grew awkward.

Derek is an old friend from Ethan’s hometown. Two years ago, he made some money as a contractor, but gambling ruined him—he lost everything and ended up with terrible credit, practically blacklisted.

He’d tried to keep up the façade for a while, but you can’t hide the repo men forever. The last time I saw his pickup, it was being hauled off by a tow truck as he watched from his porch, arms folded like he dared someone to say a word.

Every time we meet for a meal, he gets drunk, cursing the heavens, the earth, and the unfairness of society. Last time, he even fought with another old friend, beating him so badly he was hospitalized for half a month.

People stopped inviting him for a while, but Ethan insisted. Loyalty, he said, means not bailing when it’s inconvenient.

"I was the one who invited him," Ethan said, putting down his glass of iced tea, his voice steady.

"We’ve been friends for years. Just because he’s fallen on hard times, we can’t cut him off."

The room went quiet for a second—no one wanted to be the bad guy, especially with Ethan laying down the law. People shuffled in their chairs, the conversation sidestepping around Derek’s mess like a pothole in the middle of Main Street.

Seeing his stance, no one objected further. They just smiled awkwardly and nodded.

I frowned slightly—not for any other reason, but because I’m pregnant now, and Derek smokes one cigarette after another, nonstop. If I bring it up, he always shoots me a mocking look, as if I think I’m better than him.

I’d started carrying a little bottle of lavender spray just to drown out the stench after these gatherings. Once, I left it out on the table as a hint—he just sneered and lit another Marlboro.

I wanted to say something to Ethan, but noticed him glancing toward the door, as if waiting for someone.

The front door banged open so hard the picture frames rattled. Everyone froze, forks halfway to their mouths.

I jumped.

Derek stormed in, cursing, "They charged me twenty just to park—why not just rob me outright?"

His boots tracked in the slush from the parking lot. He slammed his keys on the entry table, scowling at the world.

He jabbed his finger behind him, shouting, "What kind of woman doesn’t stand up for her own man? You’re the only one who always sides with outsiders."

His voice bounced off the walls, sharp and ugly. I caught sight of Lillian trailing behind, eyes fixed on the floor.

Behind him, a woman followed with her head lowered, faint finger marks visible on her face.

Lillian looked like she wanted to disappear into the linoleum. There was a red mark on her cheek that made my stomach knot.

This was Derek’s wife, Lillian.

She had a gentle, kind look, but her luck was bitter—married to a man as violent as Derek.

Even her clothes seemed faded around him, like he sucked the color out of the air. The way she moved—shoulders hunched, hands knotted in her lap—told a story no one wanted to hear.

"What are you yelling for? Show some manners," Ethan suddenly said, his voice deep and displeased.

Ethan almost never raised his voice, so when he did, the whole room stilled. Even the laughter from the kitchen faded out.

The moment Derek saw him, his expression changed—he broke into a wide grin.

"Bro, sorry, sorry, my temper got the better of me again. I’ll punish myself with three drinks later."

He slumped into a chair, grabbed a handful of party mix, and popped a peanut into his mouth like nothing happened.

Derek could switch gears faster than a used car salesman. In seconds, he was all bluster and jokes, pretending nothing was wrong.

Lillian lingered at the door, awkward and unsure. She quietly tugged a lock of hair down to cover her face. Her fingers trembled, and she kept her gaze glued to the table, as if hoping she could disappear.

The silence in the room grew heavy. Someone coughed, fiddling with their phone, and the rest of us looked everywhere but at her.

Everyone looked sympathetic, deliberately averting their eyes to spare her further embarrassment.

It’s a peculiar American politeness—when someone’s hurting, we act like we don’t see so they won’t have to talk about it.

I sighed and called out, "Lillian, come sit down. The food will be out soon."

I tried to sound casual, like I hadn’t seen the bruise.

She gave me a grateful smile and sat next to Derek.

"Thank you, Rachel."

Then, glancing past me at Ethan, she added softly, "Thank you, Ethan."

There was a tremor in her voice. Ethan shifted in his seat, his jaw tightening. For a split second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

Ethan’s expression tightened for a moment, but he said nothing.

During the meal, Derek kept cursing, smoking, and drinking, soon turning as red as a boiled shrimp.

His voice grew louder with every glass. Lillian stayed silent, her hands moving automatically—cracking shells, pouring drinks, dabbing at spills—as if she were invisible.

Lillian peeled shrimp for him, poured his drinks, and barely ate anything herself.

I watched her work, my fork idle. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to play nursemaid, but the words stuck in my throat. What could I say that wouldn’t just make things worse?

I was about to urge her to eat more, when Ethan suddenly reached out with his fork and served a piece of fish to Marcus, our host.

Marcus laughed, "I’m the host today—I should be serving you!"

He thumped the table, half in jest, but Ethan just shrugged it off, smiling with a calmness that felt forced.

"It’s all the same," Ethan replied lightly, then stood up and served a shrimp to the next person.

He went around the table, serving each person a dish or a bowl of soup in turn.

People started glancing at one another. This wasn’t the Ethan they knew.

Everyone was caught off guard.

"What’s gotten into Ethan today? Did the sun rise in the west?"

Someone nudged my elbow, whispering like it was a game show mystery.

"Yeah, this is a first!"

"It must be because Rachel’s pregnant—he’s over the moon."

"Exactly, that explains it."

I was surprised, too, but hearing everyone say this, I thought it made sense.

Ethan is introverted, not good at expressing himself. My pregnancy is a huge joy for him—and his whole family. His parents back home were even more excited than when he got his first job.

His mother called every Sunday, voice bright with hope. "You take care of yourself, Rachel," she’d say, as if wishing could keep us safe from disappointment.

I smiled, thinking to tease him, but then saw him glance up, his eyes drifting—almost unconsciously—toward the front right.

I followed his gaze.

Lillian was sipping soup, head down, her eyes slightly red between loose strands of hair.

The table’s chatter faded for a moment. I watched the steam curl from her bowl, mingling with the scent of rosemary and lemon, and realized Ethan had served her a bowl of chicken soup himself—a gesture meant for comfort, not for show.

…

Ethan had just served her a bowl of chicken soup.