I go back to my writing, but I can't focus. I catch fragments of the conversation drifting across the room.
"Yes, I know we missed it. Something came up."
A pause while Nicholas says something I can't hear.
"This weekend? That's only a few days away."
Another pause, longer this time. Phoenix's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"No, I understand. We'll be there." He glances at me, and there's something apologetic in his eyes. "I said we'll be there. Tell Mom to stop worrying."
He ends the call and sets the phone down on the table with exaggerated care, like he's resisting the urge to throw it against the wall.
"Let me guess," I say. "Dinner is rescheduled."
"This Saturday." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as his tell for stress. "My father made it clear that missing this one isn't an option. His exact words were 'no excuses.'"
My stomach drops. Meeting Phoenix's parents was terrifying enough before the police showed up asking about Marcus Webb. Now the thought of sitting across a dinner table from Nicholas and Olive Crawford, making small talk while pretending I'm not an accessory to murder, makes me want to crawl under the bed and never come out.
"Phoenix, I don't know if I can do this."
"You can." He crosses the room and kneels in front of my chair, taking my hands in his. His palms are warm and steady, anchoring me. "They're just my parents. They're going to love you."
"They don't know anything about me." The words come out thin, strained. "They don't know I'm Sydney Catalano's daughter."
Phoenix is quiet for a moment. His thumbs trace circles on the backs of my hands, a soothing rhythm that does nothing to calm the panic rising in my chest.
"No," he says finally. "They don't."
"What happens when they find out?" I pull my hands away and stand, pacing to the window. The ocean stretches out before me, endless and indifferent. "Your mother and mine were best friends. Something happened between them, something bad enough that my mom refuses to talk about it. What if Olive hates me just because of who my mother is?"
"She won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know my mother." Phoenix comes up behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. I can feel the heat of him through my shirt, solid and reassuring. "She can be cold, I won't deny that. She takes time to warm up to people. But she's not unreasonable. And whatever happened between her and your mother was a long time ago. It has nothing to do with you."
I want to believe him. I want to believe that I can walk into that dinner on Saturday and charm his parents with my wit and intelligence, that they'll see me as Jade Catalano, aspiring writer and devoted girlfriend, rather than the daughter of the woman who was once his mom’s best friend.
But I know how these things work. I know how quickly first impressions form and how hard they are to change. If Olive finds out who I am before she has a chance to know me, I'll be fighting an uphill battle from the start.
"Maybe I should tell them," I say quietly. "Get it out in the open before they can find out some other way."
"Or maybe we let them meet you first." Phoenix turns me to face him, his eyes searching mine. "Let them see who you are before they learn whose daughter you are. Give them a chance to know you without all that history getting in the way."
"You mean lie to them."
"I mean give them context." He cups my face in his hands, gentle despite the tension I can feel humming beneath hisskin. "You're not your mother, Jade. You're not responsible for whatever happened between them. When they meet you, they're going to see a brilliant, beautiful woman who makes me happier than I've ever been. That's what matters."
I lean into his touch, letting myself believe it for just a moment. "And if your mother recognizes my last name?"
"Catalano isn't exactly uncommon. And even if she makes the connection, I'll handle it. I'll explain that you didn't know about the history, that you came into this relationship without any agenda."
"Did I?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Come into this without an agenda, I mean? You paid off my debts, Phoenix. You brought me here. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t done that."
Something flickers in his expression, too fast for me to identify. Hurt? Guilt? Fear?
"I didn't buy you," he says, his voice rough. "That money was a gift. I told you that from the beginning. What happened between us, what's still happening, that's real."
