"The system was alphabetical."
"Alphabetical doesn't account for visual harmony."
My mother laughed. Actually laughed, not her polished hostess laugh, but the real one. The one I hadn't heard in years. "He did the same thing to our summer house. Rearranged every room before he was ten."
"It needed rearranging."
"The furniture was antique. Some pieces hadn't been moved in fifty years."
"And now they're in proper conversation groupings instead of just pushed against the walls."
Vance shifted in his seat. "He did the same thing to my apartment. Called my fridge organization a 'crime scene.'"
My mother pressed a hand to her chest. "Did he fold your napkins?"
"Into triangles."
"Oh, thank God. He got to the bishop's hat phase before college. I was finding them everywhere."
"There's a bishop's hat phase?"
"There are six acceptable variations of napkin folding," I said. "The bishop's hat is the most formal."
"Of course there are." Vance shook his head, but he was almost smiling. "Of course you know that."
The tension cracked. My mother was laughing. Tristan was grinning. Even my father's mouth twitched into something that might have been amusement.
This. This was what I'd wanted. Not perfection. We were far from that. But connection. The beginning of something real.
The conversation flowed more easily after that. Less stilted. More natural.
"Tobias tells me he's been cooking," my mother said, turning to me with something like wonder. "Actually cooking. From scratch."
"I learned while I was away." I shrugged. "Had to do something with my time."
"He's good at it," Vance added quietly. "Better than me, anyway. He's been teaching me proper technique. Low heat. Fresh herbs. Cream in the eggs."
"Cream in the eggs?" My mother looked intrigued.
"It's a whole thing." I smiled at Vance. "He's learning. Last week, he actually admitted that my carbonara was better than his MRE-style cooking."
"MRE-style cooking is efficient."
"MRE-style cooking is sad."
My mother looked between us, something soft in her expression. "You really have built a life together, haven't you?"
I reached under the table, found Vance's hand, and squeezed.
"We're working on it," I said.
After dinner, my father pulled Vance aside.
I watched from across the room, pretending to listen to my mother talk about her charity work. They stood by the window, my father's posture stiff and Vance's even stiffer. My father spoke. Vance listened, nodded once, and shook his hand again.
I couldn't hear what was said. I didn't need to. The fact that my father was talking to him at all, one-on-one, meant something.
Tristan appeared beside me, two glasses of whiskey in hand.
