From table twenty-four, we had a perfect view of table one.

Chad and Brooke sat there with the old football team and the cheerleaders. They were the loudest table in the room. Champagne. Big laughs. Selfies.

Around nine o'clock, Chad walked around the ballroom with a whiskey, telling everyone about his life.

He got to our table eventually.

“Overflow table!” he said. “How are we doing back here?”

He told us he was Vice President of Whitmore Motors now, his dad's dealership. He told us about his house, his boat, his kids' private school.

Then he looked at me.

“Hey, Grease Monkey, you'll appreciate this. You know these Sullivan Auto guys? The ones with the green trucks everywhere?”

“I've heard of them,” I said.

“They're killing us,” said Chad. “Killing our service department. They charge, like, half what we do. And they show people the old parts. Who does that? Customers come in asking why we don't do it too.”

He shook his head.

“Whoever runs that place doesn't understand business,” he said. “You don't tell customers the truth about their cars. That's how you lose money.”

At table twenty-four, Lucy Parker suddenly started coughing into her napkin.

She wasn't coughing. She was laughing.