This time the laughter came quicker. Louder. Her cousin Brent slapped the table. Somebody near the grill snorted beer through his nose.
I forced a smile because that’s what I had trained myself to do. Rebecca had made a sport of cutting me down in public for years, always in that same airy tone, always with a laugh attached so I’d look thin-skinned if I objected. Most people told me she was “just spirited.” “That’s just Rebecca.” “You know how she is.” As if cruelty became charming if you dressed it in a nice outfit and served it with chardonnay.
She kept going.
“Honestly, if I’d known fifteen years ago that I was marrying a man who needed permission to have an opinion, I might’ve registered for better china.”
There were gasps then. Actual gasps. A couple of people looked down at their plates. Her father frowned. Her mother shifted uncomfortably. But nobody stopped her.
