The pearls have stopped bouncing. Mom's posture undergoes a tectonic shift. Her shoulders drop a quarter inch. Her chin lifts. The expression that crosses her face is one I've cataloged over years of being her daughter: recalculation.
She's pricing him.
The shirt is clearly bespoke. The bow was flawless. The language, precise. Mom doesn't care about the scars or the tusks or the green skin. Mom cares about the thread count and the deportment and whether or not his vocabulary suggests old money or new money or, God forbid, no money.
"Magnolia didn't mention she was bringing anyone."
"A recent development, Madam. I regret the lack of formal notice."
"How recent?"
"Recent enough that I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting her family." Dash straightens from the bow. "An oversight I look forward to correcting this weekend."
Mom's eyes flick to me. Sharp. Surgical.
I am standing next to a stripped wardrobe frame, wearing a wrinkled vintage dress with a flour stain on the hip that I completely forgot about, and my hair is a wind-destroyed catastrophe from the van with no windshield. I look like I crawled here from a dumpster behind a bakery, which is not far from the truth on any given Tuesday.
My mouth is dry. My palms are wet. The familiar heat creeps up my neck, the blotchy red flush that betrays me every time Mom turns that particular gaze in my direction.
"Hi, Mom," I say again, because my brain has apparently seized.
"You have flour on your dress."
"I know."
"The rehearsal dinner is in ninety minutes."
"I know."
"Your sister has been asking where you are for two hours."
"I was?—"
"You were late. As usual." Mom's gaze swings back to Dash. The recalculation is still running. Her lips press into a thin line, the one that means the data is inconclusive but trending favorable. "Mr. Roark. Are you aware that my daughter owns a bakery?"
"I am."
"And that concerns you... how?"
Dash looks at her with perfect stillness. "It doesn't concern me, Madam. She builds things that make people happy. That requires more courage than most professions I've encountered, and I've encountered a significant number."
Mom's left eyebrow moves a full centimeter.
The string quartet downstairs finds its tuning. A cello joins the violin. The sound swells through the old building like a held breath.
"Rehearsal dinner. Ninety minutes." Mom straightens her pearls. "Don't be late."
She turns on her heel and vanishes down the hallway without closing the door.
The door stays open. Mom's perfume lingers, something floral and accusatory.
I sink onto the tiny bed. The mattress wheezes under me like it's also been judged and found wanting.
"She liked you."
Dash looks at me.
"No, seriously. That was her liking someone. The eyebrow thing. When she hates you, she doesn't move her face at all. Ask my college roommate. Ask my therapist. Ask literally anyonewho's ever brought a casserole to her house that wasn't in a Le Creuset."
