“Marco,” she repeated, like she was testing out the name. “And how long have you been seeing him?”
“Why are you asking likethat?”
“Likewhat? I just want to meet him.”
I groaned. “That’s not necessary.”
“Of course it is,” she said easily. “He’s important enough for you to introduce him to Lucia, but not me?”
“I didn’tintroducethem,” I argued. “It was circumstantial.”
Isabel wasn’t buying it. “Right. Well, circumstantial or not, I want to meet him.”
This was happening toofast. Marco and I had barely figured out how tocoexistwithout me pushing every button he had just to see what would happen. And now I had to throw him into afamily dinner?
This was a bad idea.
No. Worse. It was aterribleidea.
“I don’t know ...” I started, trying to find an excuse.
“Dinner. Tonight,” she said. “I’ll cook.”
I paused.
“Vale,” Isabel said gently, “it’s just dinner. You don’t have to be weird about it.”
I hesitated.
She wasn’t pushing. She wasn’t prying. She just ... wanted to meet him.
Somehow that made it worse.
I swallowed. “Okay.”
“Seven?”
I exhaled slowly. “Seven.”
“Great,” she said, sounding pleased. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I wasn’t. Was this really happening?
Oh gosh. Thiswashappening.
Tonight.
Not in a week. Not in some distant, hypothetical future where I had time to prepare Marco forIsabel-levelscrutiny. No—in just a few hours, I had to sit across from my sister and pretend like my marriage wasn’t held together withfine print and mutual exhaustion.
This was a mistake.
A massive,irreversiblemistake.
I mean, what was I even supposed to say?Hey Isa, meet Marco. Yes, he’s my husband, but don’t worry—it’s not what you think. It’s just an arrangement, nothing more. Oh, and did I mention he’s involved in some shady things I can’t exactly talk about? But don’t worry! Lucia loves him, and he feeds ducks, so he can’t be that bad, right?
I stared at my phone for a long time, debating whether to call him. Texting felt safer. I could control my words, think through my responses, avoid any awkward pauses where my panic mightactuallyslip through. But Marco wasn’t a texting person—not really.
If I texted him, he’d brush it off. He’d act like this was nothing.
