“Olivia!” my mother coos with herwe’re-in-public-and-I-love-my-daughter-so-muchvoice. “There you are!”
“Mom.” I let her air kiss me on both cheeks, then smooth my hair, inspecting me like I’m a prize horse.
“Owen, dear! It’s so good to see you,” she pulls Owen into a dramatic hug. After I hung up on her this morning, shetexted saying it was an absolute embarrassment that she didn’t know I was engaged, and she at least needed to know his name so as not to tip off her friends to the fact that she was being ‘kept in the dark’ about her daughter’s love life.
Owen, for his part, didn’t miss a beat. “It’s great to see you, Mrs. Arden. You look lovely tonight.”
“Oh, stop, I’ve told you to call me Marlowe,” she says, glancing around, and I roll my eyes.
A waiter passes, and I reach for whatever fried blob of something is perched on a tasting spoon on his tray.
“Olivia,” my mother snaps under her breath, shaking her head once in disapproval. I drop my hand. Owen, who had also reached for an appetizer, pulls his hand back when he sees I didn’t take one.
“Coco,” she calls out to a woman passing, “have you met my future son-in-law? He’s a literary agent.” She presents Owen to the woman who has the collective scent of wealth, white wine, and high-end filler.
“Hello.” Coco holds out her hand like a limp fish for Owen. “A literary agent? Anyone we’ve heard of?” But she says it with an air of ‘prove yourself,’ not curiosity.
I hold my breath. I have no idea who Owen represents.
“Well,” Owen smiles at the woman, “I just secured an offer for Senator Meredith Langford’s memoir.” He reaches out and lets his hand rest at the base of my spine, and my heart flutters a little. “And I represent Elijah Thorne.”
“You do?” I whisper, impressed.
“Oh, my book club readThe Gone Hours—hauntingly beautiful,” Coco says. She looks surprised, or at least I think she does, the filler doesn’t leave much room for nuance.
“Thank you, I’ll tell him you said so. I’m seeing him this week.” His eyes dart down to me, seeking approval, and I nod my head a little. He is really good at this taming rich whitewomen thing.
“Now,” my mother stops Coco, who is trying to leave, with a hand on her arm, “you have to hear their adorable engagement story. Sal and I were just beside ourselves.”
“Mom,” I murmur under my breath. While I had told my mom Owen’s name and profession, all I included in our text exchange was that we got engaged at Ocean Beach a few weeks ago, hardly adorable. My stomach turns. Can we pull this off?
Owen is quiet for a moment, and I worry he’s panicking or chickening out and about to blow our cover when he reaches down and laces our hands together instead.
“Mrs. Arden, you know I think your daughter is incredible,” he starts, but then he brings our joined hands to his mouth and gently kisses my Chinatown ring. A low heat curls in my belly. “We met at a bar near her apartment. I was in town visiting Elijah. But then one conversation turned into five hours, followed by a late-night run to her favorite taqueria for chorizo quesadillas. I extended my stay, and we started seeing each other every chance we got—museum dates, roller-skating in Golden Gate Park, and a disastrous attempt at a pottery class.” He looks down at me and smiles, like we shared this non-existent memory, before continuing. “Somewhere between an impassioned argument that Lara Croft deserved better writing and burning pancakes in her kitchen, I knew. I realize it was sudden, but I think I knew she was the one that first night we met at the bar. I think she is the most fascinating person I’ve ever known, and I couldn’t imagine my world without her in it. So, on one long weekend visit, I took her to Ocean Beach, her favorite spot, at sunset. I brought her favorite dumplings from the place in Chinatown she loves, and I asked her to marry me. She said yes, or, actually, she laughed so hard she cried, but then she said yes.”
I stare at Owen, my jaw slack, and watch the familiar blush crawl across his cheeks. He tries to loosen the grip he hason our hands, but I hold tight. He turns to look at me with something like an apology in his eyes, but I don’t want him to apologize.
I tug our joined hands toward me and lean in, placing a delicate kiss on his lips. A little whoosh escapes the back of his throat, and his other hand comes around to tangle in my hair. I try to deepen the kiss, but my mother clears her throat beside us, and we both pull away. Owen looks a little breathless, like he’s just run a mile. I feel a little…well, I’m not sure what I feel.
“Isn’t that the sweetest?” my mother says, but I can tell she’s a little taken aback, too. “We are, of course, going to throw a big party for these two lovebirds, but you know how it is, Coco. I had to get through this gala first. I told Sal that I simply couldn’t plan two parties at once, no matter how much I wanted to. Keep an eye out for the invitation!”
“Of course,” Coco just nods an odd, frozen smile and walks away.
“Ugh, that woman,” my mother sighs as soon as Coco is out of earshot, then turns toward Owen. After I flung myself at him, he took a small step back, no longer touching me. I can’t believe I kissed him. He did not sign up for that. “Now, Owen, dear, Olivia said you were a literary agent, but I had no idea you represented Elijah Thorne. A Pulitzer! Impressive.”
“He was my first client. We both got lucky with each other,” Owen says, regaining his composure. I, on the other hand, still feel a little dizzy from our fake kiss. After all, he was just going along with it to sell our story.
“Hum, at least one of you has a proper job,” my mother says, throwing up her hands. “Olivia, you’re lucky you found someone willing to put up with your erratic work prospects.”
“Mom, can we not?”
“What? I’m just saying. You don’t have the most stable track recorded. You are a bit of a risk, dear.”
I let out a shaky breath and want to pull Owen away before my mother can say anything else.
“I hope you’ll beg my pardon, Mrs. Arden,” Owen clears his throat, and reaches out to take my hand again, “but I’m not sure you’re clear on what Liv does for a living.”
“I am very clear that Olivia quit a successful career with a major tech company—one that her father pulled all sorts of strings at to even get her an interview.” All the warmth my mother had been showering Owen with drained from her face. This was the Marlowe Arden I knew. “Not to mention wasting the extremely pricey degree that we paid for, so she could spend her days tracking strangers’ moods with emojis. So yes, Mr. Bishop, I’m quite clear on what my daughter does, or rather, what she doesn’t do for a living. She might have you enamored, but be careful—Olivia’s always been a lot of work and when things get tough, she tends to move on.”
