The wind off the lake whipped dry oak leaves across the gravel parking lot, scattering them against the tires of my ten-year-old sedan.
Ethan was waiting by the heavy double doors of the entrance, his fingers constantly adjusting his silver watch strap.
“We had to make some very difficult executive decisions about the seating chart,” Ethan said, his voice coming in rapid, defensive bursts before I could even step out of my car.
I closed my door and stood on the cold asphalt. “What does that mean for my friends from the school district?”
“The guest list is locked, Mom,” he said, looking over my shoulder toward the main road. “We had to prioritize people who can help me with the regional promotion next year.”
“I only asked for four seats, Ethan,” I said.
He adjusted his watch strap again, the metal clicking against his wrist. “We had to cut a lot of people, Mom, it’s not personal.”
A black luxury sedan pulled into the parking spot next to mine, its engine humming quietly as it came to a stop.
