“Just a year or so. I’ve been taking care of my sister’s kids mostly. We share an apartment. She and her husband separated recently and she needed the extra hand.” Anneliese takes a small sip of the wine. I can tell she hates it by the way she swallows.

“I got you a present,” I pipe up, because I’ve barely used my voice since we got here and I’m tired of watching this discomfort unfold. I reach into my bag and pass the Amazon-wrapped gift over to Anneliese.

“Oh, you didn’t have to!” She gently takes the book out of the packaging, tearing the wrapping paper one layer at a time. She clutches her chest as she gazes at the Norman Rockwell cover—an annotated survey of his best work, with high-quality color plates that lift from the page.

“I remembered that you liked him. We used to copy pictures from my parents’ book. I had that easel that you set up in the corner of my room. And then when Mom was sick, we moved it there and I would draw for her.” Anneliese cradles the book, clutching it to her heart like a baby.

“I’m so touched you remember that! You know, I didn’t realize he was a real artist until later on? I just liked the pictures so much. Everything was always right in their little worlds. It made me feel peaceful.” She sets the book on the table and opens it, the spine cracking. I feel a glow of satisfaction that I picked just the right present, that now Anneliese really understands how much I care, that I’ve ensured she’ll continue showering me with affection.

“Yeah, I’m sure that Ruby Bridges painting really ignited a sense of harmony in you,” Beth says saccharinely, almost under her breath but not quite. I want to rip her tongue out, but instead I glance over at her and mouth stop being a bitch. She just stares back, dead-eyed. But Anneliese doesn’t look up. She’s too absorbed in the book, and I smile, because at least I got something right about tonight.

But Beth is out of hand the rest of the meal, making jabs at Anneliese every chance she gets, undercutting her statements, rolling her eyes at me whenever Anneliese compliments the food. I’ve seen this charade from Beth before. When she feels smarter than someone, when she’s bored and wants to cause mayhem, right before slipping out and watching everything go to hell.

Beth has never cared about people liking her, and Anneliese, with her tender eyes and serene smile, is no match for her. I should have seen this coming, and I excuse myself to use the restroom and sit on the toilet, rubbing my eyes with frustration, waiting an extra minute before coming out and facing them again, my lips dry and magenta from wine.