I could use a stiff shot of something before my next attempt at small talk, but I don’t think I’m supposed to follow them to the drinks station. Instead, I wipe dip off my shoe with a cocktail napkin. It’s been—my phone says only twenty minutes?! God.
I shouldn’t give up hope on the party of my dreams after one awful conversation, but the birthday present I most want after a terrifying day is to relax. Maybe watch a favorite movie. One where being hard to read and looking angry when you’re not makes you a sexy Mr. Darcy type instead of the colleague everyone loves to overlook. Or one with a miscommunication mishap, which I’ve always found intensely relatable.
The lights dim, highlighting Marijke’s candlelit figure in the kitchen doorway, Tobin and the guides assembled behind her. A white-frosted cake lit with a single silver taper makes a spectacular statement against her outfit.
Tobin hums a note; phones pop up in my peripheral vision. I put my mouth into the smile I practiced. No point looking like I just got told I’m not the kind of person people want to mentor. I should be able to brush it off by now. I know who I am.
“Happy birthday to youuuuuu,” the guides croon, like the servers in one of those musical family restaurants, but with fewer jaded eye rolls. Tobin runs singing practice for the guides twice a year. Nothing makes the tips flow better than “Happy Birthday” in four-part harmony around the campfire.
Marijke sets the cake onto the table. As Tobin’s troubadours hold the last note, I blow out the flame, then look up at the cameras.
They’re trained on Tobin. Every last one of them. My two-sided smile slides off my face and smashes on the wide-plank oak floors.
He’s more than earned everyone’s love; I can’t begrudge him that. It’s not like he deliberately uses his magic to draw every eye his way and leave me unseen. It just happens, over and over. He’s the likeable one, after all. My better half.
When the clapping dies down, I’ve already cut and plated four pieces of cake. Marijke gives an annoyed huff when she sees I’ve preempted the possibility of dramatic knife work, but I hand out slices as fast as I can, determined to wrap this party up in time to binge at least half a season ofBridgertonbefore I pass out.
“Excuse me. Are there any more of the sliders? They’re amazing.”
I look up from my robotic cake slinging. This must be one of Tobin’s new guides: young, polite, with a physique my elderly neighbors would call “strapping.” I’m about to point him in Marijke’s direction when it hits me.
“You… think I’m working this party.” It’s not a question. I look around the room. Tobin’s deep in conversation with the guides. Naheed’s holding court with a half-dozen listeners while David watches and learns. Marijke is the coldly beautiful snow queen. Nobody would mistake them for staff, even if they were handing out birthday cake. Hell, Tobin could jump out of a cake wearing a bow tie and a smile and most of the guests would mistake him for the birthday boy.
This is my birthday. This is my party. This is mylife. And I’m playing a supporting role. If I can’t get noticed here, atmy own party,what chance do I have anywhere else? How can I expect to win the pitch competition and get that promotion I’ve always been passed over for because nobody promotes dull, unlikeable Liz Lewis?
If I were a better person, I wouldn’t be angry. I’d listen to theworld when it says,you don’t deserve to be seen. I’d accept that some people are born with that special magic, and I’m not one of them, and the best thing to do is stop wanting things I can’t have.
But Idowant them. I want people to seeme. I want them to stop dismissing me because the quiet, awkward spreadsheet nerd can’t possibly have ideas that don’t have to do with columns of numbers. I want to be someone in my own right, not just Tobin’s wife. And I want my husband to—well. Best not to go there. Not in public, anyway.
I realize with horror that I’m almost crying—something I swore at age seven I’d never again do at my birthday party. The best way not to cry at a party, always, is not to be at a party.
I push the knife at the startled kid.
“Do me a favor. Serve this cake.”
“Did I say something—”
I’m already gone, breezing through the kitchen on my way to the front door. Marijke catches up as I grab my boots.
“Liz! Where are you going?” Her light Dutch accent turns shock and dismay into things of beauty.
My new jacket slips on in a whoosh of Tobin-scented air, and I almost stop. He doesn’t like it when we don’t do what his mom expects. And she’ll expect an explanation, at the least.
But what excuse could I make? Not the truth.Sorry,Marijke,I have to rest up for another big weekend at home, alone, as usual. I’d love to be out on the trail with someone—I’m not a fan of not hearing any footsteps but my own—but Tobin’s always mushing or rafting. Everyone else has moved on with their lives and left me behind. All I have left are my Saturday rom-com marathons paired with a billion appetizers from the freezer section at the superstore. The mini quiches help the loneliness a lot, but I wouldn’t underestimate the sausage rolls!
After that, I’ll head over to Amber’s to babysit. Me and the six-year-old will mainline ten episodes in a row ofBarbie: Life in the Dreamhouse. Not even ten different episodes! Maybe not eventwodifferent episodes! Very underrated show, by the way. Subversive as fuck. Ken’s my favorite character.
Ha. Honesty would go over as well with my mother-in-law as it does with my husband, who dodges the ugly truth of our faltering marriage as expertly as he steers his whitewater raft around strainers of fallen trees. Tobin’s good at ignoring what he doesn’t want to see, whether it’s his parents’ dysfunctional antics or his wife’s slow, sad slide away from him.
“It was a great party, Mar”—No; can’t do it—“Mrs. Renner. Spectacular. Sorry I can’t stay.”
Before she can answer, I dart outside, pulling the door shut behind me. For a minute, I stand there, damp wind pouring over me, just… breathing.
It’s not yet dark—not at this time of year, this far north. The setting sun backlights the in-your-face magnificence of Grey Tusk, the mountain that gave its name to the glittering world-class ski resort twenty minutes away. Clouds rip off its distant, snaggle-toothed peak, like it’s tearing a hole in the heart of the sky.
I didn’t fail at this party because I’m uncaring, or uninteresting, or a bad listener. It’s because I don’t have Tobin’s brand of magic—thatsparkthat commands people’s attention. For years, I told myself it didn’t matter, that effort and loyalty and ideas would speak for themselves. But the truth is, magic is theonlything that matters. Without it, I’ll always be a side character. I’ll always be a voice that gets talked over. I’ll always feel pinned by fear, poisoned with frustration and resentment.
I can’t live like this anymore.
