“Yep.” I smile coolly. “That’s what love does.”
He doesn’t smile back. “You’ve always been impulsive.”
“And yet somehow still managed to stay alive,” I say lightly, pulling Olive’s chair out for her. She sits down gracefully. I take the seat beside her.
Mom clears her throat. “It’s lovely to meet you, Olive.” Her tone is polite, brittle. “What do you… do?”
“I’m a kindergarten teacher,” Olive says.
Dad’s lips press together. “That sounds… fulfilling.”
“It is,” Olive says sweetly, folding her hands in her lap.
I’m watching my parents closely. They’re trying not to react, but I can see it in the twitch of Dad’s jaw, the way Mom’s eyes scan Olive’s dress. They were probably expecting someone in stilettos and red lipstick, not a woman who reads happily ever afters and makes dinosaur costumes for five-year-olds.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to defend my choices.
I order a club soda with three limes. Dad glances up, registers it, says nothing. Mom does the tiny exhale that means she’s both relieved and filing it away for later.
We’re three forkfuls into the burrata when a shadow lingers at the edge of the table. A girl—early twenties, maybe—clutches her phone like a life raft. Her friend hovers back at the host stand, already mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurts, words tumbling. “I know you’re with your family. This is rude. I’m a huge fan. Like… since forever.” She winces. “Could I—would you mind—a quick photo? I’ll be fast. I swear.”
Dad’s jaw tightens. Mom’s eyes flick to mine. Another reminder for them—what my life looks like. A life they neither understand nor want any part of.
Olive’s hand finds my knee, a small grounding press.
I push back my chair and stand, keeping my smile easy. “Hi. What’s your name?”
“Cam,” she says, breathless. “Camila. I’m shaking. Sorry.”
“No need,” I say kindly, tipping my head toward the host stand. “Let’s grab one by the door so we don’t photobomb anyone’s risotto, yeah?”
Relief floods her face. “Yes! Thank you!”
I glance at my parents. “Back in sixty seconds.”
Dad’s look is pure disapproval. Mom presses her lips into a polite curve.
I step with Cam to the host stand, angle us so the dining room isn’t in frame, and lift the phone.
“One and done,” I say, and we are. She thanks me three times, and I offer her a quick hug. Her grin is sunrise-bright. On impulse, I add, “Thanks for listening. Get home safe.”
She scampers off, mouthing sorry to my parents as she passes. The host gives me a grateful nod. I walk back to the table, slide into my chair, and pick up my fork.
Dad sets his down. “You could have said no.”
“Well, my fans are important to me,” I say mildly. “I owe them everything. Without them, I’d still be a nobody.”
“Being a nobody isn’t so bad,” Dad argues. “If you want, you could still take that job with my friend Barney. He’s offered a few times—help to get you back on the right track.”
I say nothing. Because my parents just don’t get it. And for me, this evening can’t be over fast enough.
Olive squeezes my hand. “I turn into a fangirl myself whenever Ash plays for me. He’s so talented—I can understand why his fans love him. Was he always this artistic as a child?”
And just like that, she diffuses the tension. While Mom launches into a story about the first song I ever learned on guitar, I just watch Olive—radiant, warm, a goddamn sunbeam—and wonder how she makes it look so easy.
I give her a slow, grateful smile. She gets it.
