The first course is already laid out—a delicate butternut squash soup steaming in fine china bowls. Comfort food for a cold day, though my appetite is nonexistent.
Zane doesn’t show any hesitation; he inhales dramatically. “Oh, that smells divine!” he says, placing his napkin on his lap, and flashing me a grin. “Remember that time we tried making ramen in your dorm kitchen and nearly set off the fire alarm?”
“I think that’s the last time I’ve seen you near a stove,” I reply lightly.
Mother watches our exchange with a relaxed smile, as if pleased to see me engaging normally. If only she knew how every cell in my body is coiled with tension.
Underneath the table, I dig my nails into my thigh to keep myself grounded and present.
I will not slip.
Not when I finally have a friend here. Not when a single misstep could cost me any future chance of seeing him or anyone again.
The staff member pours us each a glass of water and quietly exits, leaving the door partially open.
“So, Zane,” my mother begins conversationally, lifting her spoon. “How is school? You’re a senior this year.”
“Yes, Mrs. Black,” Zane answers after swallowing a spoonful of soup. “Graduating this spring, if you can believe it. Time flies.” He glances at me. “Mara and I used to talk about going to AGU together. Now, look at us, all grown up,” Zane gushes, launching into an animated recounting of a recent internship at some political PR firm.
He’s laying it on a bit thick, name-dropping a senator’s son he met, joking about the endless cocktail parties. It’s charming, and Mother eats it up, asking questions, nodding approvingly.
I manage to sip my soup, though it tastes like paste in my mouth. My mind keeps circling the real reason Zane might be here.
Was this truly Chase’s idea for PR?
Or did Zane wrangle this visit himself somehow?
He’s running through superficial topics so fluidly... maybe too fluidly. Performing, as always, like a sunbeam in human form. But I catch it, just fleetingly, the way his hand trembles, almost imperceptibly, when he lifts his water glass.
He’s nervous.
And Zane doesn’t get stage fright. Not unless the stakes are high.
“And how is your father doing, dear?” Mother asks, steering the conversation politely. I blink and tune back in.
“Dad’s great,” Zane says with a bright smile that’s almost convincing. “He asks about you both often—sends his congrats on the presidency.” He winks at me. “He’s angling for an invitation to the wedding of the century, of course.”
My throat tightens around a too-hasty sip of water. Wedding of the century. Right. The engagement. I lower my glass carefully, hoping my face hasn’t gone pale. Mother gives a thin, approving laugh. “Of course. We’ll have to see about that once plans are in motion.”
Zane’s eyes flick to my left hand. I’ve been absent-mindedly twisting the engagement ring with my thumb. It’s a huge, gaudy thing. Far flashier than my taste.
I drop my hand from the table. “The ring’s a bit much, isn’t it?” I say lightly, feigning a joking tone as I attempt to ease the tension that crept in. “Chase has never heard of subtlety.”
Mother gives me a warning glance for the hint of sarcasm, but Zane just cackles. “Please, subtlety is boring. You know I love a little extra bling.” He holds out his own hand, fingers spread to show off the assortment of silver and gold rings he wears.
I smirk, playing along. “All right, fair. Maybeyoushould marry him then. He’d adore your fashion sense.”
“Mara,” Mother chastises under her breath, but Zane just gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“Oh, honey, he’s not my type. I prefer someone with a soul.”
A shocked snort-laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, and Zane’s eyes widen. For a beat, I worry he’s gone too far, but then Mother actually laughs as well, albeit tightly. The subtext probably flew right over her head. She likely thinks it was a generic joke about Zane preferring men. But I caught the venom in that word—soul.
Ifeel the satisfying sting of the jab at Chase.
God, I love Zane.
Halfway through our entrées, Mother’s phone buzzes. She fishes it from her cardigan pocket, frowns apologetically, then says, “Excuse me, I have to take this. It’s Clark.” My father. She’s already rising, smoothing down her skirt. “I’ll just be a minute. You two keep enjoying lunch.”
