I felt the blood drain from my face, but I nodded. “Right.
Of course.”
We sat. I ordered a shrimp salad. Helen got a steak.
Peter ordered the same.
The silence at the table wasn’t companionable. It pressed down like a weight. I tried small talk, but it bounced off like rubber bullets.
Helen talked about her neighbor’s grandson getting married to a “nice girl who doesn’t work too much.”
I tried to ignore it.
When the food came, I’d barely lifted my fork when Peter suddenly leaned forward, his voice loud and sharp.
“Are you serious right now? You ordered shrimp? When you KNOW my mom’s allergic?”
My fork froze mid-air.
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