"And my mom — she's going to cry. She cried for a week after the wedding. She'll take one look at you sitting in her living room and she'll cry again."
"Then I'll sit there, let her cry and I won't make it about me."
"I want to come with you," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"They're my parents. And you're—" She stopped. Chose the next word carefully. "You're… whatever this is. I'm not going to let you go alone."
His eyes went bright. He blinked it back, but not before she saw it. The raw, unguarded thing that kept surfacing in him lately, rising closer to the top every week, harder and harder for him to push down.
"Sunday," she said. "Five o'clock. Don't be late. And Dominic? My dad's going to be wearing cufflinks. Tell him you like them. He's still not over the hotel concierge thing."
Dominic smiled. The full one. The one she was collecting now, hoarding them like her students hoarded colored pencils — greedily, aware of their value.
"I'll notice the cufflinks," he said.
"And don't oversell it. He'll know."
"Noted."
She picked up her pen and went back to her notes. But she was smiling, and she didn't try to hide it. Across the table, Dominic was smiling too.
CHAPTER 18
CHARLOTTE
Her parents' house in Whitestone looked the same as it always had: white siding, green shutters, a concrete stoop with a crack running through it that her father had been meaning to fix since Charlotte was twelve. A welcome mat that said BLESS THIS MESS in faded letters. The lawn was mowed in the diagonal pattern her father treated like an art form.
Charlotte stood on the sidewalk at four fifty-five with Dominic beside her. He was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a bakery box in the other — cannoli from a place in Astoria that Kate had recommended. He was wearing dark slacks and a button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled to the forearm. He'd asked her that morning what the dress code was, and she'd said, "My dad will be in khakis and a polo. My mom will be in whatever she was wearing when she started cooking. Don't overdress."
He hadn't overdressed. He also hadn't underdressed. He looked, she thought, like he was trying to get it exactly right, which was endearing.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine."
"You're holding that wine bottle like it might explode."
He loosened his grip. "I'm fine. Is there anything else I should know? Besides the cufflinks?"
“If he’s not wearing the cufflinks, he’ll be wearing the watch my mom gave him for their anniversary. Don't mention it unless he brings it up. And don't compliment the house too much or he'll think you're being condescending. And don't offer to help with the dishes — he'll insist on doing them himself, and if you push it, he'll think you're criticizing his system."
"He has a dish system?"
"He has a whole method. Rinse, soak, scrub, air-dry. In that order. It's non-negotiable."
"Noted."
She looked at him. The late afternoon light caught the tension in his jaw, the faint lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a year ago. He was nervous. Dominic Weston, who'd given presentations to boardrooms full of billionaires, who'd negotiated contracts over dinners at the kind of restaurants her parents had never set foot in, was standing on a sidewalk in Whitestone, Queens, nervous about meeting Frank and Diane Hoffman.
She took his hand and squeezed. "Ready?"
"Ready."
She rang the bell.
Her mother opened the door. She looked at Dominic with caution, tenderness, and a readiness to protect her territory if necessary.
