“Yes,” I say.
Sienna takes a breath and offers her hand. “Hi. It’s nice to?—”
“Coats,” my father interrupts, slipping his off and holding it out, not to me, not to the standing coat tree he just walked past, but to Sienna.
Her fingers twitch in mine.
“I—yes,” she says, because she is polite even when people don’t deserve it. “Let me take care of that for you.”
She takes his coat and my mother’s, then Brandon’s, then Elise’s mink-trimmed thing that smells like expensive boredom.
“Careful,” Elise says, already moving on. “That one is vintage.”
“Of course,” Sienna answers, voice steady.
She slides the hangers with care, lips pressed together in a forced smile that my family doesn’t deserve. The tightness in my jaw kicks up a notch.
Everyone heads into the living room, taking in the décor, the furniture. Their eyes don’t miss a single detail. I already know that they won’t approve before they even open their mouths.
“I’ll bring out drinks,” I say, but my mother lifts two fingers without looking at me.
“Oh, Sienna, dear? A glass of champagne would be lovely. Something brut. And a splash of orange.”
“Do you have Pellegrino?” Elise asks Sienna, not me. “With lime. Thin slice.”
“Whiskey. Neat.” My father says without even glancing in Sienna’s direction.
They’re treating her like she’s a servant instead of the most important person in my life. Each order is a shove, small enough to be deniable, obvious enough to bruise. They don’t see her as mine. They don’t see her at all.
Sienna glances at me. I open my mouth to snap at my family, but she shakes her head, silently telling me that she can handle it.
She shouldn’t have to.
“I’ll get them,” I tell her.
The fridge hums as I open it, and I glance out the window as I make the drinks. The lake is a sheet of pewter, and the trees are black ink on its rim. I pour the whiskey, set out the lime, and find the good champagne we bought this morning. The bottle opens with a muted sigh, and I wish I could pack my anger in there and let it hiss away.
Footsteps. Sienna slips in beside me, already reaching for flutes.
“Hey. I think it’s going okay,” she says.
I give her a dry look. “Bullshit. Don’t lie to me.”
“I was trying to make you feel better,” she whispers. “They’re rude, but I can handle it.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, too low for the living room.
“I know.” A tiny smile. “But if I don’t, they’ll keep talking to you like I’m not here.”
I lean a hip against the counter and watch her slice the lime. The knife is sharp, the line she cuts is clean.
“Are you okay?” I ask, studying her face.
“I’m fine,” she says, and because she’s honest, she adds, “Mostly. It’s a lot of… looking down noses.”
I tilt her chin with my knuckle. “They don’t get to look down on you.”
Her eyes soften. “I know you think that. That helps.”
