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There’s a murmur through the restaurant, heads turning, when they enter. I’m not sure if it’s because people actually know who they are, or if it’s because they look like an aging rock star beside an aging model. Maybe it’s just that they’re so attractive — my mom could still pass for someone 15 years younger than she is. Though even then she’s way too old to wear her hair so long or her dress so short.

She hugs me, and then Tommy hugs me. He’s short enough that when we hug his head winds up uncomfortably close to my chest, which only seems to bother me.

The two of them are giddy, giggling, bubbling over. For a hopeful moment I think perhaps my mother’s actually excited to see me, to include me in this new circle of family she’s creating. But it turns out they’re both just a little drunk, which is slightly less touching.

I introduce Ryan, and he and Tommy start chatting while my mom watches with adolescent adoration on her face.

“Look at us with our two rockers,” she coos to me. I throw up a little in my mouth.

“Mom, you know we’re not together anymore,” I remind her.

She winks at Ryan. “You two were meant to be together,” she says. “Those little college break-ups never last anyway.” I can’t believe this is coming out of her mouth. She and my father hated the very idea of Ryan last year.

“Your mother is a very wise woman, Elle,” Ryan grins.

We look at menus and my mother defers to Tommy on every decision, as if she has absolutely no opinions or desires of her own. Every question he asks she meets with “I don’t know, honey, whatever you think.” She even asks him what she should drink. It occurs to me that for so long I thought my mother was subject to my father’s whims, his job demands, but in reality, perhaps, she allowed herself to be swept along because it was so much easier than taking responsibility for her own happiness.

My phone buzzes and I ignore it. It’s undoubtedly Max, who has left no fewer than 10 messages that consist solely of shrieking “Night of the Dragon!!”

“I’m so sorry about that magazine article, Elle,” my mom says once the waiter leaves.

“Yeah. About that,” I begin, wrapping my hands tight around my water glass. “I’m going to respond. Tomorrow.”

For the first time all night she stops acting like a 13-year-old meeting her crush at the mall. “Oh, honey. That’s not a good idea.”

“It’s a better idea than letting Edward Ferris get away with slander.”

I can tell she desperately disagrees. “You need to talk to Bruce first,” she says.

“Why?” I ask. “So he can tell me what’s in Dad’s best interest? You know Dad called and tried to threaten me into not responding?”

“I’m sure he wasn’t trying to … ”

“Mom, he said no one would be paying for college if I ‘didn’t get with the program’. And he suggested he’d buy me a car if I did.”

I watch her harden a little, grow slightly sober, a tiny glint of hatred for my father puncturing her champagne-induced bubble.

“Who are you talking to?” she sighs.

“The Times and Rona Blakely.”

“Things go wrong on live TV,” she says. “You know that.”

“Yes, that’s why I insisted I’d only do a canned piece.”

“Things can still go wrong,” she says. “You’re just providing more ways for the press to twist your words.”

“I’m releasing the voicemails he left for me too,” I tell her.

“Voicemails?” she asks.

“I told you about them,” I say between my teeth. She finds out her teenage daughter is getting harassing voicemails from her boss and she forgets? “They’re bad, but no one is going to believe my word against his without them.”

She bites her lip, clearly uncertain about the course I’ve chosen, and turns to Tommy. Because who better to advise than a high school drop-out with one song anyone remembers?

“You deserve to have your side of the story out there,” he says.

Hearing Tommy’s expert opinion seems to sway my mother, and her face grows relaxed and optimistic. They begin talking to each other, and I stop listening.