I turned toward Sloane.
“Why did you do it?”
She stared at me.
“I told you. It was a joke.”
“No. That's what you called it. I'm asking why you did it.”
“I don't know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I'd had drinks.”
“You had two cocktails.”
Her face colored.
I'd served both.
Evan shifted beside her.
“Sloane was filming content. Everybody was hyping each other up.”
I looked at him.
“You offered to pay your friend five hundred dollars if she could make me drop the dessert tray.”
His father slowly turned toward him.
Thomas Caldwell's voice was low.
“You did what?”
Evan stared at the table.
“It wasn't serious.”
I almost laughed.
There was that word again.
Serious.
As though cruelty became harmless when people with money declared it unserious.
“You hid my order pad.”
Evan said nothing.
“You snapped your fingers every time you wanted water.”
Nothing.
“You asked whether I needed to pay for an extra chair because I was taking up too much space beside the table.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“That was Sloane,” Evan muttered.
Sloane whipped toward him.
“Seriously?”
“What? It was.”
“You laughed.”
“So did everyone.”
Their friends weren't in the room now.
Interesting how quickly everyone disappeared when accountability arrived.
I looked at Sloane.
“You asked me three times whether the restaurant's health insurance covered weight-loss injections.”
Her father stared at her.
May you like
She looked down.