Chapter 3 - The Gathering at Westerville
Winter dragged on, gray and unforgiving, until a sudden unseasonable thaw brought a deceptive warmth to Ohio by late February. That was when the summons arrived, wrapped in pastel floral stationery that could only belong to my Aunt Diana.
It was an invitation to Grandma Elaine’s upcoming eightieth birthday celebration, to be hosted at Diana’s sprawling suburban home in Westerville.
When Mom called to ensure I was attending, her voice carried that familiar, grating tone of forced optimism. “Eddie, you have to come. Grandma is turning eighty, and she’s been asking about you constantly. It’s family. We need to put the past behind us.”
“The past, Mom?” I asked, leaning back in my office chair. “You mean the part where my entire family accused me of assault and branded me a liar?”
“Oh, nobody branded you anything,” Mom scoffed, minimizing the trauma with Olympic-level skill. “Paige was stressed. It was her wedding day. You know how emotional brides get. If you just show up, keep your head down, and be nice, everyone can move on.”
“I’ll come,” I said quietly.
There was a pause on the line, as if Mom was surprised my resistance had folded so easily. “You will? Oh, Eddie, that’s wonderful! I’ll tell Diana—wait, are you bringing Leah?”
“We’ll both be there.”
I didn't tell Mom why I agreed to go. I didn't tell her that I had spent the last two months weaponizing my integrity, building a successful career, and securing ironclad proof of my innocence. I wanted to see them. I wanted to look my aunt Diana in the eye while she played the gracious hostess. I wanted to see if Paige still wore the crown of a perpetual victim. Most of all, I wanted to see if my mother would finally find a spine when confronted with cold, hard facts.
On the Saturday of the party, Leah drove us up to Westerville in her reliable sedan. As we pulled onto Diana’s manicured suburban street, it was lined with at least thirty luxury sedans and SUVs. String lights were already twinkling across the expansive back deck, and the distant sound of clinking crystal glassware drifted through the open car windows.
Leah reached across the console and placed her warm hand over mine. “You’ve got the files?”
I patted the inside breast pocket of my tailored charcoal blazer. Inside, resting against my ribs, was a heavy manila envelope containing certified copies of the venue’s safety logs, Marcus’s signed maintenance reports, and a sworn statement from venue management detailing the exact structural dimensions of the floor where Paige had fallen.
“Locked and loaded,” I said, offering her a reassuring smile. “Are you sure you want to be here for this? It’s going to get messy.”
“Eddie,” Leah said firmly, shifting the car into park and turning to look at me with fierce, unwavering eyes. “I’ve watched you carry the weight of their gaslighting for months while you rebuilt your life from the ground up. If you’re walking into the lion’s den, I’m walking right beside you with a chair and a whip.”
I laughed, the nervous tension in my chest evaporating instantly. I couldn't have asked for a better partner.
We stepped out into the crisp afternoon air and walked up the paved driveway. Before we even reached the front porch, the heavy oak front door swung open, and Paige stepped out holding a tall glass of lemonade with lemon slices floating on top. Her expression curdled the second she saw me, her lips tightening into a hard, defensive line.
“I didn't think you’d actually show your face here,” Paige said, crossing her arms over her chest, nearly spilling her drink.
“It’s Grandma’s eightieth,” I replied evenly, keeping my tone completely neutral. “I wouldn't miss it for the world, Paige.”
She sneered, her eyes raking over my blazer with thinly veiled contempt. “Well, don't go throwing a tantrum if things don't go your way. Trent isn't here to protect you this time.”
“I don't need protection, Paige,” I said, stepping past her into the foyer. “Especially not from someone who loses their balance so easily.”
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Her face flushed a deep, mottled crimson, but before she could formulate a venomous retort, I walked past her into the crowded living room, leaving her choking on her own lemonade.
***
