Harper left. Nate left with her, though he apologized to me in the doorway, quietly, and I remember thinking — he knew. He already knew what she was like. She had, I later found out, gotten drunk in the car on the way to the restaurant. She had not eaten that day. Nate had tried to stop the toast. He'd squeezed her wrist when she stood up. She had shaken him off. The twelve other people at that table did not look at me for the rest of the dinner. My mother, who was sitting next to me, held my hand for the entire remaining two hours and did not say a single word. My father's other brother, my uncle Wyatt, drove me home that night. In the car he said, "Harper has been waiting to say that to you her entire life. I'm sorry you had to be the one who heard it." I did not cry that night. I did not cry for a week. Harper did not call me. Harper did not send a card. Harper did not apologize. We did not speak for eleven months. And when we finally did speak, it was at our cousin's wedding, and her greeting to me was, "I heard you got engaged. Good for you."