Giovanna and Mama exchange a glance that speaks volumes. They're not used to me being this passive, this compliant. Usually, I have opinions about everything. Usually, I care enough to express them.
"The calla lilies then," Giovanna decides after a moment. "They're more elegant for the venue we've chosen."
"Perfect," I agree immediately.
The dinner continues, one elegant dish after another. I stay focused on the mothers and their wedding planning, nodding along as they discuss venues and flowers and music selections and guest lists that seem to grow longer with each conversation.
I agree to everything they suggest. Nod in all the right places. Smile when it's appropriate. I don't look at Santino, even though I can feel him watching me from across the table.
I can feel him trying to catch my eye, trying to restart our conversation. But I keep my attention carefully anywhere else—on the mothers, on my wine glass, on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth.
"And the dress?" Mama asks, pulling my attention back. "Have you scheduled your final fitting yet?"
"Not yet, but I will."
"Liana, the wedding is coming up soon." There's worry creeping into her voice now. "You need to—"
"I'll schedule it tomorrow," I promise. "First thing in the morning."
"And the bridesmaids' dresses? Gia mentioned hers needs to be adjusted—"
"I'll handle it."
"And we still need to finalize the seating chart—"
"I'll take care of it, Mama." My voice is quiet but firm, with just enough edge to end the questions. "I'll take care of everything that needs to be done. Don’t worry."
She looks at me for a long moment, her maternal concern evident in every line of her face. "Are you alright, darling? You seem..."
"I'm just tired," I repeat the same excuse I've been using all evening.
"You've been very quiet tonight. That's not like you."
"It's been a long day."
Across the table, Santino leans forward again, his voice insistent. "Liana—"
"Excuse me," I say, standing abruptly. "I need to use the restroom."
I walk away before he can say anything else, before he can ask any more questions I don't want to answer. In the bathroom, I stand at the sink and stare at my reflection in the ornate mirror. I look like a ghost—pale and hollow, with shadows under my eyes that makeup can't quite hide. I look like someone who's already given up, who's already accepted defeat.
Maybe I have given up. Maybe this is what surrender looks like.
I take a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight. I smooth down my dress with trembling hands. I paste on my polite smile, the one I've perfected over years of family events.
Then I go back out there to finish playing my role.
When I return to the table, dessert is being served—individual portions of tiramisu that look almost too beautifulto eat. I sit down and pick at mine with my fork, not really tasting it.
Santino tries again immediately. "Liana, we should—"
"The tiramisu is excellent," I say to Giovanna, interrupting him without looking his way. "You'll have to tell me where you got it."
She looks surprised at the sudden interruption but answers readily enough. "There's a little bakery near our house. I'll give you the address."
"Thank you so much."
Santino sits back in his chair, visibly frustrated. Let him be frustrated. Let him feel a fraction of what I'm feeling.
