My phone started vibrating across my nightstand at 2:07 in the morning, dragging that insect-buzz sound through the dark like something trapped under glass. I was half asleep, one arm numb under the pillow, my apartment in D.C. still holding the stale heat from the radiator even though it was March.
Outside, somewhere down on the street, a siren yelped once and then faded. I blinked at the screen, saw Mom, and felt that familiar little drop in my stomach. Nobody calls at 2:07 a.m.
to ask how you’re doing. I grabbed the phone fast enough that my charger cord slapped against the lamp. “Mom?”
Her voice came through flat and awake, which was somehow worse than panic.
“Tomorrow night, your brother’s fiancée’s family is coming for dinner. You should be there.”
I sat up, pushing hair out of my face. “What?
Tomorrow? You could’ve called at a normal hour.”
“I’ve been busy.”
That meant she’d been busy with Daniel. It always meant Daniel.
I rubbed my eyes and looked at the red numbers on the microwave across my studio kitchen. 2:08. I had a hearing prep meeting at eight.
“I can drive down after work, I guess. What time?”
“Six-thirty. Don’t be late.”
“Okay.”
I waited, because with my mother there was always a second sentence.
“Anything else?”
There was a pause. I could hear the faint clink of dishes on her end, like she was already in the kitchen planning centerpieces in the middle of the night. Then she said, “You can come, but keep your mouth shut.”
I went still.
The room, which had been full of the ordinary nighttime sounds of pipes, traffic, and the hum of my refrigerator, suddenly felt too quiet. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t start,” she said. “Lauren’s father is a federal judge.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
Cold floorboards. Tight throat. “And?”
“And we can’t afford for you to embarrass us again.”
I actually laughed, but it came out thin and sharp.
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