They disappear, and Evan and I are alone again.
“So,” I say. “Dinner.”
“If you'd rather I didn't?—”
“No. I want you there.” I look at him. “Do you want to be there?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
* * *
EVAN
The Bennett apartment smells like roasted chicken and rosemary. The table's set for seven, food being pulled from the oven, everyone talking over each other.
“Alright, everyone,” Rebecca calls from the kitchen doorway, dish towel in hand. “I hope you're hungry.”
“Starving.”
Dinner starts with the familiar bustle. Marie's recounting the performance, Tom and Michael are debating something about sports, Emma's adding commentary to everything.
I'm sitting across from Holly.
“So Evan,” Michael says, “what do you do when you're not helping with dance recitals?”
“I run the Bellamy Foundation. We fund scholarships, after-school programs, community development projects.”
“Holly mentioned that,” Rebecca says, passing me a second helping without asking. “Wonderful work. Your father started it?”
“He did. I took over five years ago.”
“And you enjoy it?”
“I do. Especially recently. Holly's been helping restructure our winter gala—focusing on stories instead of statistics. Showing donors the impact.”
“That sounds like Holly,” Rebecca says. “You've always been that way. Even as a little girl, you'd come home from school worrying about the kids who sat alone at lunch.”
Holly's face goes pink. “Mom?—”
“What? It's true.”
Everyone chuckles. Tom reaches for more potatoes.
Then: “What's a bijillionaire?”
Holly nearly chokes on her wine.
The table goes silent.
“Marie, honey, why are you asking that?” Holly manages.
“Josh's mom said Evan is a bijillionaire. Is that a bad word?”
Emma's staring at Holly like her hair is on fire. Michael and Rebecca exchange glances.
Rebecca recovers first. “Marie, that's not polite dinner conversation?—”
“I thought you ran a non-profit?” Tom says.
