Roofs patched.
Cars jump-started.
Bills quietly handled.
Every single person at that table had, at some point, called us when life became inconvenient.
Usually I answered.
Not because they owed me.
Because they were family.
Now they had collectively decided I was the person the family could afford to make small.
The realization was strangely calming.
I reached into my jacket.
Took out the green package.
Set it beside Laura's plate.
“Happy birthday, Laura.”
She looked down.
“What is this?”
“Your present.”
“You're leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, come on.”
I pushed my chair in.
Nobody stood.
Nobody said my name.
I walked past the bar, past the hostess stand, and out into the Dallas night.
Behind me, before the door had fully closed, the laughter started again.
Easier now.
The uncomfortable part had removed itself.
My truck was three blocks away in a parking garage.
I walked slowly.
Not because I wanted to.
Because my legs felt unreliable.
The drive north took about twenty-five minutes.
I remember almost none of it.
At one light on Lemmon Avenue, I sat through most of a green signal because I had forgotten what I was supposed to do when the color changed.
A horn sounded behind me.
I moved.
At 9:45, my phone buzzed in the cup holder.
LAURA.
Why did you have to ruin my birthday?
A minute later:
Everyone is asking what's wrong with you.
I read both messages at the next red light.
Turned the phone facedown.
Kept driving.
The house was dark when I arrived.