“Before anyone laughs again,” he said slowly, “there’s something all of you need to know about Tina’s dress.”
The whispering died. Even the servers by the wall stopped moving.
“And about the man who made it.”
Somebody dropped a fork. The clink was so loud in the silence that I flinched.
Lorraine’s mouth opened, then closed. Her hand drifted down from her hip as if she’d forgotten what to do with it.
“There’s something all of you need to know.”
Glenn raised the microphone a little higher, took one breath, and looked out across a ballroom that suddenly belonged entirely to him.
“Tina’s grandpa, Bill, worked at my family’s auto shop for 20 years. He taught me to change a tire when I was 10. He covered for my dad during the holidays. And when my family hit a rough patch while I was in eighth grade, he quietly paid for my baseball uniform and never told a soul.”
The room didn’t move.
I could hear my own breathing.
