Then my mother does something unexpected.
She smiles at Stella first.
Not at me.
Not at the room.
At Stella.
And because I know my mother, I know how real that is.
“Stella,” she says. “You’re even lovelier in person.”
Stella blinks.
It’s almost imperceptible, but I see it.
Then she recovers in that gorgeous, composed way she has.
“Thank you for saying that instead of ‘you photograph well.’”
My father laughs first.
A real laugh.
My mother’s mouth curves.
“Good. She has aim.”
I almost smile outright.
Introductions happen even though they’re technically unnecessary. My mother takes Stella’s hands in both of hers for one brief, elegant second, and my father leans in to kiss her cheek in that European way that would annoy me from literally anyone else.
A waiter appears.
“What may I bring you?”
My mother looks to Stella first.
“What are you having?”
There’s no test in the question.
Still, I feel Stella straighten slightly beside me.
“Sparkling water with lime is perfect,” she says.
Not because she’s intimidated.
Because she’s in season, in playoffs, and not stupid.
I know that.
My parents know that, too.
My father lifts his brows once, approving.
“Disciplined,” he says.
