Judah, the kid in the Salt Life shirt, was mid-bite into his Philly steak sandwich when it all started.

It was stifling hot, but a nice young woman found us a table on the back patio while I parked the car — directly in line with a high-powered fan. The square table sat at an angle just right, turning it into more of a diamond. Other than the fan blowing into the back of my head, it wasn’t bad for a humid Arkansas evening.

The first two women came in semi-quietly. What you’d expect if Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian walked into a gastropub — quiet, entitled, and slightly intoxicated. One wobbled in on white wedge heels, brushing her hair back over her ear. Her friend gripped a straw hat to keep the fan from blowing it away. Their dresses, their jewelry, their pristine everything said they either had money or their doctor-lawyer husbands did. Either way, you felt it before they sat down.

I wasn’t trying to listen. My back was to the women.

Our food had arrived just before they were seated. I was working on the barbecued salmon, Judah attacking his Philly, and Alissa into a deconstructed pastrami, no bread — her gluten sensitivity is serious enough that we’re both careful. Our server, Alfonzo, had already won us over before we ordered a thing. He spotted Alissa’s nails the moment we sat down.

“Oh, honey,” he said. “Let me see those.”

“It’s for Pride,” she said, lighting up that he noticed.

“They are super cute, girl. What can I get you to drink?”

He stayed attentive the whole evening.

Judah’s sandwich was as big as his head, barely on the plate. Like any eleven-year-old worth knowing, he was getting it everywhere, working through it as fast as he could. Both hands. Full commitment. That’s about when the two women passed our table and settled into the booth behind me.

The one in the straw hat got loud. Really loud.

“Oh my GAWD!” Half-shriek, half-scream. “THAT’S. SO. NOT. COOL!” She held a copper cup — Moscow mule, probably, or something lime-vodka adjacent.

“Oh no, girl. She told me herself.” The blonde in the white sundress took a sip of something white — zinfandel, maybe pinot grigio. “At the shower. Said Margie already talked to a lawyer.”

The dark-haired woman set down her glass. “Come off it. Right before the wedding, Shelly?”

“Mhmm. Three weeks before, Gina.”

A brunette at the next table shifted in her seat. She wasn’t with them, but she’d stopped pretending to read the menu.

“That’s not cold feet,” Gina said. “That’s a decision. You think she’s been sitting on that a while?”

Shelly nodded slowly — the way people nod when they’ve been waiting to nod. “She went through with it anyway.”

“Her mama.” Gina gulped her drink. “You know how terrible her mother is.”

“I know exactly how her mother is.”

A patio heater ticked somewhere above them. A fork hit the floor two tables over. Judah reached for a few fries, chewing quietly, eyes forward, ears open.

“The house is in his name,” Gina said. “That’s the part nobody’s talking about. Not even Margie. The house — and whatever’s in that account he won’t let her see.”

“She told you about the account?”

Gina reached across and touched Shelly’s hand. “She told everyone about that account. She told you too. You just don’t remember. It was at the bachelorette — the one where you drank, what? Three?” She banged the table. “No! Four. You drank FOUR bottles of zin. In less than an hour.”

“I did not.”

“You so totally did, Shel. And Margie was going on about it to anyone who’d listen. ‘We’re still figuring out our finances.’ Still? It’s been three years. What else is there to figure out?”

Then: “Hey, Margie! Girl! How’ve you been! We so missed you!”

The cackling started. Judah finished his sandwich and pushed the plate back, almost all the fries untouched.

Some things you hear.

Some things you just carry home.

Except the fries. That’s just gross.