Chapter 2 - The Reverse Musical ChairsThe espresso machine was a polished stainless-steel monster capable of brewing espresso, frothing milk, and likely communicating with low-orbit satellites. It sat on the quartz countertop like a trophy of financial entitlement.
One of Darnell’s crew members, a thick-set guy named Marcus, stepped up to the counter and unhooked the braided water line.
Briana darted forward, physically placing herself between Marcus and the machine. “Don’t touch that! What are you doing?!”
“Executing a return request, ma’am,” Marcus said calmly, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
“That is my machine!” Briana shrieked. “I use it every single morning! I frothing oat milk in it right now!”
“It was purchased using my prime account and my primary Visa card,” I interjected from the kitchen island, leaning against the counter. “Which makes it my machine. And since I drink black drip coffee from a twelve-dollar pot, it’s being returned.”
A collective gasp rippled through the guests closest to the kitchen. My cousin Tessa, sitting on a velvet ottoman in the corner with a glass of Pinot Grigio, lowered her glass and slowly pulled out her phone. Her eyes met mine, glowing with the frantic delight of someone witnessing a historical event in real time.
“Sylvia, stop this!”
My mother pushed her way through the crowd, her face flushed red, her designer glasses sliding slightly down her nose. “What is wrong with you? This is your sister’s housewarming party! You are embarrassing this family!”
“I didn’t make the charge, Mom,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “You did. At 8:17 on Tuesday morning. And then you sent me a heart emoji.”
“We used your card because you have a line of credit!” Mom hissed, keeping her voice low, though forty people were actively holding their breath to catch every word. “You work hard, you save your money, you live below your means! Briana is just starting out! Family helps family!”
Darnell looked over at me from his clipboard, his eyebrows raised. “She really said that out loud?”
“She really did,” I told him.
“My uncle said something real similar right before he took my granddaddy’s Buick,” Darnell remarked, nodding to Marcus. “Take the bar stools next.”
Two of Chase’s gym-bro friends were currently sitting on the velvet-upholstered bar stools near the breakfast bar, holding bottles of craft beer.
Marcus walked over. “Excuse me, fellas.”
Both men immediately stood up. One of them raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “Hey man, I just came for the free sliders. I don’t want no trouble with the repo squad.”
His girlfriend glared at him. “You’ve literally never been more involved in anything in your life.”
The stools were loaded onto a dolly and wheeled out the front door. The heavy iron wheels clacked against the hardwood floor, a sound that echoed through the silent apartment like a ticking clock.
Next were the six dining chairs surrounding the reclaimed-wood dining table.
What followed was a surreal, high-stakes game of reverse musical chairs. As Darnell’s crew systematically moved through the dining area, guests were forced to awkwardly stand up, cradling their plates of prosciutto and artisanal cheeses. People backed away toward the walls, clutching their wine glasses, watching in stunned horror as the physical infrastructure of the party was dismantled piece by piece.
“Should we move the food?” a woman in a silk jumpsuit asked nervously, holding a massive charcuterie board.
“Don’t move a damn thing!” Briana screamed, her voice cracking.
“Move the food,” Darnell instructed gently. “Table’s coming out.”
The charcuterie board was passed down a human chain of wealthy twentysomethings like a bucket of water at a barn fire. A bowl of spinach dip landed on a windowsill. Two dozen custom cupcakes ended up stacked haphazardly on top of the front-loading washing machine in the hall closet.
Then Chase walked out of the master bedroom.
Chase was twenty-four, wore his hair in a gelled swoop, and kept his linen shirt unbuttoned low enough to display a gold chain and a sternum that had clearly never seen a day of manual labor. He held a half-empty bottle of IPA and looked around the rapidly emptying living room with deep, vacant confusion.
“Yo,” Chase said, his brow furrowing. “Where’s the table?”
Briana ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist and sobbing into his chest. “Chase! She’s stealing our apartment! She brought men to take our stuff!”
I stepped into his line of sight, crossing my arms over my blue Walmart polo. “I’m not stealing anything, Chase. I’m just canceling this episode of HGTV.”
Chase blinked, processing the sentence with the speed of a dial-up modem. “Wait… these aren’t your guys?”
Darnell walked up to the wall beneath the mounted seventy-five-inch television. The screen was currently displaying a high-definition slideshow of Briana and Chase posing in front of the apartment building with a oversized key.
Darnell reached behind the panel, found the heavy-duty power cord, and pulled.
The screen went black instantly. The slideshow vanished mid-frame, cutting off a picture of Chase holding a paint roller he had clearly never used.
A guy in the back of the room muttered, “Damn. The documentary got canceled.”
Tessa choked on her wine.
Briana pulled away from Chase, her tears suddenly evaporating, replaced by a dark, dangerous fury. She marched up to me until her nose was inches from mine. “You planned this. You waited until my friends were here, until Chase’s boss was here, just to ruin my life!”
“I didn’t plan the party, Briana,” I said softly, keeping my voice level. “You did. You created an event called 'Briana and Chase’s elevated adult era.' You invited forty people to celebrate everything you 'worked so hard for.' But you didn't work for any of it. You took my Amazon account, loaded it with fourteen thousand dollars of luxury furniture, and expected me to pay the bill because I’m the 'practical' one.”
“You can afford it!” my mother shouted, stepping between us again, her hands shaking with rage. “You make good money at the store! You don't have a mortgage, you don't have kids, you don't spend money on anything nice! Why couldn't you just let your sister have this?!”
I looked at my mother. I looked at the dark circles under her eyes, the defensive angle of her jaw, and the absolute lack of shame in her expression.
You can afford it.
Not We’re sorry. Not We should have asked. Not We were desperate.
You can afford it.
As if financial discipline was a defect that entitled the rest of the family to harvest my savings whenever they felt like upgrading their lifestyles.
May you like
I turned to Darnell. “What’s left?”
Darnell looked down at his clipboard, then glanced toward the open door of the master bedroom. “The big bed.”
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