"Fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
I observed his profile. The rigid set of his shoulders. The muscle ticking in his jaw. He wore the button-down I'd picked out, the navy blue one that brings out his eyes, but it felt like armor. Like he expected to need protection.
"Breathe," I said.
He didn't respond.
"Vance."
"I'm breathing."
"You're white-knuckling the steering wheel."
"That's how I always drive."
"You're going fifteen under the speed limit."
He glanced at the speedometer, swore under his breath, and the car accelerated slightly.
The Manhattan skyline grew larger through the windshield. My parents' apartment was on the Upper East Side, close enough to Central Park that my mother could complain about tourists from her living room window. I'd grown up in that apartment. Learned to walk on those floors. Spent years playing the perfect Langford son in those rooms.
Now I was bringing home a man I loved, and everything about this felt both terrifying and exactly right.
"They already know about you," I reminded him. "Tristan told them everything."
Silence.
"Well, not everything. But enough."
More silence.
"They want to meet you. That's a good sign."
Vance changed lanes with more aggression than necessary. Still didn't speak.
"Are you going to talk to me, or are we doing the silent treatment all the way to the Upper East Side?"
"I'm not doing the silent treatment." His voice was clipped. "I'm conserving energy."
"For what?"
"For not saying something stupid in front of your parents."
I laughed despite myself. "You're not going to say something stupid."
"You don't know that." He pulled off the highway, following the GPS toward the apartment. "Rich people make me nervous."
"We're not that rich."
The look he gave me could have curdled milk. "You have a doorman. A driver. Your mother's 'casual' jewelry probably costs more than my car."
"The driver is for my parents. I don't use him."
"That's not the point."
