The party was in full swing by the time I arrived. My sister always had a knack for turning her living room into something out of a Pinterest board bright balloons tied in bundles, a homemade cake balanced on the counter, parents huddled near the coffee maker like it was their lifeline. Kids screamed in joy, chasing each other between chair legs, half-frosted cupcakes in hand.

I slipped in, kissed my sister on the cheek, handed over a gift bag, and tried not to look too awkward lingering in a corner. Birthday parties for kids had this strange dual energy: chaos from the little ones, small talk from the adults, everyone pretending not to count the minutes until clean-up.

And then I saw her.

Blair Vale.

She wasn’t dressed like the other guests no practical mom jeans or “I just came from work” outfits. She wore a soft green dress that brushed at her knees, the color making her ginger hair burn even brighter under the sunlight spilling in from the window. She was on the floor, kneeling next to my nephew, helping him unwrap a stubbornly taped present. It was the sort of patience only someone who knew children well could have every movement calm, every laugh genuine.

I asked my sister quietly, “Who’s that?” She shrugged. “Blair. A friend from book club. She’s been amazing with the kids lately.”

That was all I got.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a whirl of cake slices, juice boxes, and keeping kids from climbing onto furniture. Every so often, my gaze slipped back to Blair. She was never in the spotlight, yet somehow, she was always part of whatever moment made the room warmer. Holding a balloon string for a shy toddler. Whispering something that made my niece dissolve into giggles. Helping set up a board game when the kids grew restless.

When I tried to make small talk with another guest, I found myself distracted by the sound of her laugh from across the room.

At one point, I nearly dropped a plate when a rogue toy car rolled under my shoe. I caught myself at the last second, but not before almost colliding with Blair at the doorway. She steadied me, hand brushing my arm, her smile quick but knowing.

“Hazardous zone in there,” she teased, nodding toward the cluttered living room.

“Tell me about it,” I muttered, suddenly self-conscious.

She lingered for a beat longer than necessary, eyes meeting mine. Green eyes clear, intent. It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly, but there was something in the way she held the moment, like she was used to reading people without words.

The rest of the party carried on. Kids tore through wrapping paper, parents checked their watches, my sister moved like a general trying to keep the troops fed and calm. Yet I felt Blair’s presence in the room the way one feels a draft subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

By the time the last cupcake had been eaten and the kids were ushered into the yard to burn off their sugar rush, I caught sight of her again. She stood near the sliding door, hands folded loosely around a paper cup, watching the children chase bubbles. Her expression was soft, touched by something I couldn’t name; fondness, maybe, or nostalgia.

I thought of walking over, starting a conversation about nothing...about books that I didn't even read, or kids, or the chaos of birthdays. But I hesitated. Something about Blair Vale didn’t feel like small talk. She felt like a question I wasn’t sure I was ready to ask.