King:
How is dinner with the family?
Ivy:
Haven’t started yet.
King:
Hope you’re not nervous. They’ll probably interrogate you about your research.
Ivy:
If they’re interested in my research, I’ll be shocked.
King:
Is it that bad?
Ivy:
My parents are both physicians who value high achievement. Apparently, I haven’t met their criteria.
King:
Don’t worry about it. Just remember you’re brilliant. You don’t need their validation to know your worth.
I smile, lips wobbling. These are the kind of messages that endear me to King. He knows exactly what I need to hear.
“Ivy.” Marcus’s voice carries up the stairs. “Food is ready.”
Placing my phone in my pocket, I head downstairs, where my family has assembled around the dining table like we’re in a Successful People reality TV show.
My father sits at the head of the table. He’s already meticulously cutting his pot roast. My mother serves vegetables with the practiced grace of someone who’s hosting a dinner party rather than feeding her children. Marcus looks freshly showered, his hair still damp. He’s wearing a button-down shirt that shows he’s the responsible adult son.
I take my usual seat, the one facing the window.
My father turns to me. “Marcus told us you’re working with his team now.”
“Research collaboration,” I correct, searching for the water pitcher. “Dr. O’Connell secured a partnership to study concussion prevention protocols.”
“That’s wonderful, dear.” My mother passes the potatoes without looking at me. “Marcus, tell us about that game winning goal everyone is talking about.”
And just like that, I become invisible.
Marcus describes his recent performance while my parents lean forward. They’re engaged and animated in ways they never are in the rare times they ask about my research. Mom asks follow-up questions. Dad offers tactical analysis.
They’re proud of Marcus in an effortless way. It’s painful to watch.
“The facility seems impressive,” I say when there’s a break in the conversation. “The equipment for cognitive testing is state-of-the-art. I’ll be able to collect baseline data that could…”
“Now that you’ve brought that up,” Marcus interrupts, his expression becoming fierce, “we need to talk about boundaries.”
I set down my fork. “Boundaries?”
“You’re working with professional athletes. My teammates.” He leans back in his chair. “Some of them have… reputations.”
“Marcus, I can…”
