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I shift in my seat. My body feels wrong in layers. Too dressed and not dressed enough. Like I’m wearing a secret under another secret.

The invitation came through Mom first, then directly from a lawyer’s office, then from Paul Benton himself in an email so polite it felt like it wore cufflinks.

Mr. DeLuca,

I understand this may be an unusual invitation under difficult circumstances.

I didn’t answer for six hours but kept reading it over and over. Becca finally took my phone and typed, Thank you. We will attend.

She said, “I’m not spending my Saturday scanning groceries while you’re eating grapes in a mansion.”

Now she reaches over and rests her hand on my knee. It’s a girlfriend gesture, automatic and easy. Her thumb rubs once over my jeans, then her hand returns to the wheel.

My body registers it the way it should. Mostly.

The rest of me flashes, stupidly, to last night’s cam chat.

I shift in the seat again.

Becca notices.

“You’re extra weird today.”

“Thanks.”

She turns into a neighborhood where every house has landscaping, and I wonder if I’ve ever seen yards that are entirely made of grass.

The houses aren’t mansions the way I think of them. Like long, tree-lined drives behind gates and houses so far off that they look like mirages from the road. But they are big. Nothing single story, nothing paneled. Not screaming money, but whispering it on a breeze. Somehow, that’s more intimidating.

“Jesus,” Becca says softly.

“Yeah.”

I try not to think about a man living here knowing my birthday while I worked doubles, borrowed money from Mom, moved in and out of Becca’s apartment, and learned exactly how late a car payment could be before shit got serious.

Maybe he didn’t owe me anything. Maybe that’s true.

But truth and anger aren’t mutually exclusive.

Becca slows near a line of parked cars.

“This it?”

I check my phone. “Map says yes.”

The house sits halfway down the block, set back behind a curved drive and two huge trees. White brick. Black shutters. Wide enough to block the sun.

It looks exactly like what I expected. Obnoxious.

Then the bass hits. Not loud enough to rattle windows, but loud enough to travel. A thump from somewhere behind the house, followed by a bright, familiar beat.

Becca turns her head slowly. “Is that Britney?”

The chorus kicks in. Unmistakable.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s Britney.”

Becca puts the car in park.