“I assume you’re planning to meet the parents?”
Bea pointed her fork at Claire. “We were going to ease into this conversation.”
“I’m eased,” Claire said. “He’s a textbook overachiever. You’re halfway there.”
Bea narrowed her eyes, but didn’t protest further. She moved one of her waffles onto Gage’s plate, then doused her own with a generous amount of maple syrup.
Claire set down her fork and crossed her arms. “So. What’s the plan?”
Gage’s eyes cut to Bea’s.
“Dinner, maybe? Tomorrow night?” Her voice came out thinner than she wanted it to.
“That works,” Claire said with a mouth full of salad. “Let Umma get all her nerves out in the kitchen. Let Papa size him up without the pressure of a formal thing. Keep it contained.” Claire swallowed, turned to Gage. “Can you eat spice?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t say that too fast.”
“I meant it.”
She gave him a long, assessing look. “Alright. Then you’ve passed phase one.”
“How many phases are there?”
Claire smirked. “I don’t know yet. I’m making them up as I go.”
The corners of his mouth eased up higher.
“Her dad supervises down at the port. Rough dockside union crew types. He’s not going to be charmed by your tailored coat.”
“I wasn’t going to lead with that.”
“Good. Lead with the fact you work hard, don’t flinch under pressure, and didn’t try to sleep with her on your first date.”
Gage nodded. “All true.”
Bea groaned, dropping her cutlery. “Pleasedon’tsay that to my papa.”
“And her umma,” Claire continued, skewering a crouton, “she’ll ask questions that sound sweet, but remember she’s readenough fiction to recognize red flags by chapter two. If she offers you fruit, it’s a test. Say yes.”
“I like fruit,” he said.
Claire narrowed her eyes. “I bet you do.”
Bea laughed out loud then, half melting, half mortified.
They lingered over brunch—talking travel, weather, the surreal mess of returning home after being somewhere that remade you. But underneath it all, the current remained.
The testing had begun. Claire was mostly won over.
As he stood to pay the bill, Claire leaned over and murmured, “Yeah. You’re screwed. He’s terrifying.”
The cutting board was already full of scallions and mushrooms, neatly sliced. Beside it, paper-thin beef rested in a marinade of soy sauce and sesame oil.
Bea dried her hands on a dish towel. “Umma?”
Her mother didn’t look up from the pan. “Mm?”
