“I’m not asking you for money. I’m telling you I need to keep mine.”
Grant, who had been standing near the cart examining a bottle of bourbon, slowly walked over.
He was wearing one of those fitted navy jackets he favored when he wanted everyone to know he had somewhere important to be.
“What’s the problem?”
“Your mother-in-law suddenly doesn’t want to pay,” Melissa said.
Grant frowned at me.
“Evelyn, we discussed this.”
No.
They had discussed it.
I had been informed.
“There was never any agreement that I would pay for this party.”
Grant glanced at the line behind us.
Then he lowered his voice.
“You live with us.”
There it was.
Three words they had learned to use whenever I resisted anything.
You live with us.
