18
WHITTON
Eve was in my arms as we twirled on the dance floor. My fingers holding her narrow waist. Her arms draped across my shoulders. The night was beyond perfection, starting with the delicious dinner—steak braised in some indescribable sauce with whipped potatoes and an array of colorful vegetables, the rolls fresh and slathered in butter, the wine perfectly complementing every bite, and we’d shared our desserts: mine a decadent chocolate explosion, complete with raspberries and a dollop of whipped cream, and hers a perfectly fired crème brûleé with a swirl of rosewater caramel—and ending with us dancing in the middle of the room with our friends.
If only my sister wasn’t still drinking.
“Should I say something to her?” I asked Eve.
“You’re hovering. She’s fine. She’s had two gl
