Me:I’ve got it, Em.
Me:How’s Mom tonight?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Em:She’s pretending she’s fine
Em:Which means she’s not
Em:She keeps saying she’s sorry
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe.
Me:Tell her to stop apologizing.
Me:This is what family does.
Me:I’ll be home soon.
I open my banking app and move the money without thinking too hard about the number that remains. It’s enough.It always has to be.
I study myself in the mirror. My brown hair hangs loosely. I had an event space to approve this morning, and I didn't get much sleep last night because my mom was in another flare-up, so I didn't have much time to get ready. Freckles across my nose that I used to wish would disappear and now don’t bother covering. Brown eyes that look tired up close but determined.
I reapply my lipstick carefully.
You’re okay,I tell myself.
You’re always okay.
No one else is going to help.
Mom and Em need you.
Get out there and smile.
Back at the table, I slide into my seat as if nothing happened.
“Sorry about that,” I say lightly. “Now, if we anchor the night around storytelling instead ofspeeches, you’ll keep people engaged longer.”
They nod and smile. They trust me.
By the time dessert menus arrive, we’re laughing. The deal is done before anyone says it out loud.
“I feel so much better about this,” Deidre says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “You just… get it.”
I smile, warmth spreading through me. “I really care about this.”
Everyone at the table goes quiet as a man approaches us.
I recognize him immediately. He is hard to miss. He is tall and broad, tailored to absolute perfection, with a golden tan and short blonde hair styled to look messy. His light blue eyes are bright and inviting.
Graham Whitaker.
Which makes absolutely no sense. He is entirely out of my professional league. He's the name people dropcarefully. He smiles like he already knows the room belongs to him.
