At the beep of the horn, Michelle stepped out onto the front steps and into the headlights. She never wore makeup or heels or her hair down, but tonight her eyelids were dusky, her feet perched in stilettos Henry’d never seen, and her hair swept over one shoulder in a lush cascade. The way the shoes arched her back, extending her huge, pregnant belly, pressed her into a regal stance. She looked like a movie star. Better. She looked like Christmas.

To accompany her properly, Henry dashed inside to change. Unfortunately, Papa’s suit measurements had been off, way off. Henry had long outgrown the funeral suit he was supposed to have grown into, and so the most formal thing he owned was a once-white button-up. It was veined with wrinkles, which flattened smooth where the fabric clung to his sprouting potbelly. Unwilling to part with the cash, he stuffed the five bands into the front of his pants, pressing a row of ledges into the shirtfront.

They went to Red Lobster.

By the time they got there, the dinner rush had cleared out, imbuing the empty franchise with a note of VIP exclusivity. Before even reaching the table, Al told the hostess to send over a bottle of their finest champagne, which was out of stock, and so they settled on martinis. Those glasses were plenty fancy, Al assured them. They draped themselves over the chairs like they owned the place, their chatter loud and their laughter swilling in the air like burning butter. Too riled up to read their menus, they simply agreed to everything the waitress suggested, and by the second round of cocktails they were gorging on peppercorn-panko calamari, mozzarella sticks, jumbo coconut shrimp, buffalo chicken wings, two servings of crab legs, three rock lobster tails, a twelve-ounce New York strip each because why the fuck not, and then washing it all down with gin and olive brine and a bottle of whatever the white wine was called that the waitress had said would complement their spread. Peering over the debris of crushed shells and chicken bones, Henry didn’t say anything when Michelle sipped from Al’s martini glass. Not even when she accepted Al’s vial and waddled off to the ladies’ room, because tonight was a celebration. Tonight they were invincible.

When dessert came, Al leaned back into his vinyl throne and lit a Kool. The serving staff paused from divvying tips to watch as the manager approached. The bill was delivered with a nervous rap on the table, and they were told there was no smoking, please? It was well past closing time, and, as much as their business was appreciated, maybe they could settle up and finish their evening somewhere else? If they wouldn’t mind?