“Rainy...” Tara scooted forward in her seat, drawing Rainy’s attention back to her. Tara was seated directly across from her, on the side of the island nearest the kitchen door. In one hand she loosely held her vodka tonic, and the other was sliding something across the counter to Rainy. Tara tried to control the cogs of every situation and Rainy did not want to become one of those cogs. For that reason, she was hesitant to look down at what Tara was passing to her.

She’d lived in Washington for a mere four months when her thirty-fifth birthday snuck up. She hadn’t been thinking about it. She’d been preoccupied with settling into her new home, finding a comfortable groove with Grant. The things on her mind back then: wondering if Grant secretly hated her cooking and stressing about whether she needed to go to bed when he did. When he told her he wanted to plan a dinner to celebrate, she’d been surprised.

She’d been content to spend the night at home with Grant. She secretly hated her birthday, anyway; since her mother died, it had been a reminder of who she didn’t have. But at the time, it seemed important to Grant to plan something for her, so she’d let him.

“What type of food? Vietnamese, Korean—I know this great Mexican place in Tacoma.” He was excited as he opened his laptop and said, “It’s Seattle, I can find you almost anything you want—or at least something similar.”

The New Yorker in Rainy highly doubted that, but she kissed him to get a taste of his excitement and said, “Seafood sounds great.” Grant had booked a place on the water that he swore up and down served the best crab legs in the state. He’d sent a group text to his friends and their wives with the date and time. Everyone texted back, excited, and then Tara’s text had come.

Hey, don’t mean to be a vibe killer, but that’s the weekend of the annual chili cook-off.

The texts came in fast little pelts: everyone suggesting that they combine the two.

Rainy had been embarrassed that her birthday plans were disrupting something they all wanted to do. We’ll have a cake for her at the party! someone had texted. But she was already mortified by then, trying to make some big weekend about herself when they barely knew her.

“I’ve never celebrated my birthdays. I don’t want to be the center of attention,” she’d argued when he said it was no big deal to reschedule the dinner.

“This is your first year here with me. Let me do this.”