My mother makes a soft sound that, in another woman, might have been a laugh.
“I’m aware.”
There’s movement on the line, and I realize she’s not alone.
Then my father’s voice comes through, dry and amused.
“You did underestimate her, apparently.”
I straighten a little.
“Are you both on this call?”
“Obviously,” my mother says.
“Because that’s normal.”
I glance back inside. Stella is laughing at something Jade just said, one hand curved around her coffee cup, her head tipped slightly as if she’s listening with her whole attention. It hits me again, sudden and fierce, how right she looks in every room that ever tried to make girls like her feel borrowed.
My mother speaks again before I can get lost in that thought.
“She has no meaningful social media presence.”
I turn back toward the sea, frowning.
“What?”
“Your girl,” my mother says. “Do keep up.”
I actually laugh at that.
“She has a few athlete accounts,” my father adds. “Game footage. Stanford media. Press clips.”
“Which,” my mother continues, “is impressive.”
I blink again, slower this time.
This conversation has now gone so far off script I’m starting to enjoy myself.
“You researched her.”
My father answers before my mother can.
“It was necessary.”
“Dad.”
“What?” he barks. “You flew to Newport, took her to a high-visibility event, and somehow thought no one would look into the girl on your arm?”
My mother picks up smoothly from there.
“Stanford. Division I athlete. Strong academic track. Serious coverage.” A pause. “No performative nonsense online. No social climbing. No thirst traps. No embarrassing digital trail of bad choices.”
I close my eyes briefly.
This is, somehow, her version of a glowing review.
“She’s not a project,” I say quietly.
