It shouldn’t have to. I kiss the corner of her mouth, quick and impulsive, then hand her the Pellegrino.
“Thin slice of lime,” I say, and she bumps my shoulder with hers.
We carry the tray in together. I set the glasses on the stone coffee table, and Sienna offers them with that small, composed smile. No one thanks her. Elise lifts her glass to the hearth like she’s toasting an audience. Brandon asks if the caviar he sent arrived. I lie and say no. The truth is, it did, and I fed it to the garbage disposal. My mother takes one sip, then sets the flute aside as if she’s saving her palate for something better.
“Sienna,” my mother says, still not looking at my fiancée, “would you be a dear and see about the heat? It’s awfully warm.”
“It’s a fire,” I say. “In winter.”
Sienna steps to the side of the hearth and adjusts the flue anyway. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
My father gives a brisk nod. “And after that, perhaps you can take our bags up? We’ll freshen up before dinner.”
“You’re staying at the lodge,” I say.
“TheLodge?!” My mother gasps, saying the word like it’s garbage.
My father raises one eyebrow, disappointment clear in his eyes.
“I booked you rooms,” I add. “You’ll like them.”
Everyone looks like they’ve swallowed a lemon, but I ignore them, turning to Sienna.
Something muscle-deep relaxes in Sienna’s posture. It’s small, but I see it. I see all of it, how she carries herself like a person who learned young that being good makes other people more comfortable. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be good for them. She can be whatever she is for me.
I take a seat on the couch, patting the cushion next to me for Sienna.
“Sienna, dear, would you mind topping this—” My mother lifts her glass without finishing the sentence.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Sit.”
Sienna hovers for a second.
I make the call for her. “Sit,” I repeat, gentler, and hook my hand at her waist until she sinks onto the couch cushion beside me. I keep it there, thumb brushing the hem of her sweater, a quiet line between us and them.
Dinner is a shitshow. Not the food; that’s delicious. Sienna cooked as if she were feeding people she loved, roasting chicken that fell apart, potatoes crisp at the edges, and green beans with lemon and toasted almonds. She sets it out family-style because that’s how she knows meals. She’s all hands passing, stories shared. My family eats like a presentation.
“Delicious,” my mother says, tone so neutral it’s an insult.
“Homestyle,” Elise adds, meaning unsophisticated.
My father doesn’t speak, but I can see him calculating. I can see him tallying details, the ring on Sienna’s finger, which is too large to dismiss, which annoys him, the way our hands find eachother, the way I watch her like she’s the only thing in the room that matters. Which she is.
“Ronnie,” Brandon says, “you’re from here?”
“Sienna,” she corrects. “And yes. Born and raised. Wolf Valley High. Then I?—”
“And your… work?” my dad interrupts before she can finish speaking.
“I substitute teach at the elementary school. I’m hoping to get a full-time position soon, but they’re hard to come by around here.”
Brandon’s smile thins.
“How… sweet,” Elise says.
“Necessary,” I say.
