Bea wanted to crawl under the table.
“And you’re…twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six.”
Her father grunted. “So you’ve had money longer than you’ve had a fully developed frontal lobe, huh?”
Bea’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle the choking sound she’d almost made.Don’t make this worse, Bea.
Gage’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Just a glint of restraint.“I was born with it.”
“Money comes and goes. Character stays,” Umma said. A truth, not a judgment.
Gage nodded carefully. “Yes, ma’am. My parents have tried to give me both.”
Her papa set his spoon down with a faint click. “And what do you think? Did they succeed?”
There was a pause. Not long, but deliberate.
“I think so. But I’d rather you be the judge of that than me.”
Umma’s eyes were clear and sharper than usual. Her smile was faint. “We’ll see,” she said. “She’s our only one, you know.”
Bea reached for her water glass with fingers that absolutely, definitely were not trembling.
“So, Gage.” Papa tilted his head, tone curious. “You think you’re good for my daughter?”
Bea’s pulse surged. She resisted the urge to reach under the table and squeeze his hand. Or maybe her own. Her lungs held still. She didn’t need him to win them over. Not with charm, not with money. She just needed him to mean it.
“I think I’m not done proving it yet.”
Bea’s umma sat back. “What if she wants to move back after she graduates from St. Ives?”
There was a long, long silence. His eyes flicked to Bea, then back to her umma.
“That’s up to her,” he said at last. “But I hope she’ll stay.”
Bea felt the precision in his answer. For a time, no one moved.
Then her umma put some kimchi in her bowl. Her papa resumed eating.
Finally, Gage picked up his spoon.
The conversation lightened after that. Gage asked her dad questions she’d never even think to, then listened like every word mattered. About the port—logistics, unions, winters coming off the lake. Her father answered with the caution of a man used to outsiders asking too much, but by dessert they were trading stories about boat malfunctions and last-minute negotiations.
Her umma, meanwhile, studied him like a character in a novel—quietly flipping pages, scanning for red flags. She couldn’t imagine there were many, if there were any at all.
Bea and her umma cleared the table.
“Some tea?” Bea offered, at her umma’s insistence. She sliced some pieces of fruit, too, placing them neatly on a small tray. Gage accepted it with a nod of gratitude.
Later, when he stood to leave, he thanked her parents, formal but not stiff.
“Goodnight, Bea,” he said.
She wanted to hug him, to press her face into his coat, to kiss him just once before he walked out into the snow. Instead, he only brushed his fingers along her sleeve, and she gave him a small smile.
Her papa walked him out, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
