She concedes and grabs one for me. We’re all silent as she pours a small amount of red wine into each glass.

“What kind of email?” George forces out cheerfully in Mara’s direction.

I grin with my wine glass held aloft. “Yeah, Mom, tell us about your exciting life.”

Mara’s smile goes in and out like a flickering bulb. She lets it settle before looking up at George. “I’m wanted to choreograph a Mean Girls production in Vegas!”

George’s hopeful grin wavers. “Oh my … goodness, wow, congratulations, when did this come through? Are you, um—” He sets his wine glass down, his expression going pensive. Instead of finishing his thought, he picks up his sandwich and takes a bite.

There’s another silence.

“This is actually really good, Sier,” Gill says across the way.

I nod. “Thank you, sir.”

“It wouldn’t mean moving there,” Mara explains. “It’d be a month or so, and then I’d be back … probably. I’m going to go to the interview and hear them out. Nothing’s for sure yet.”

George’s forehead lines become more prominent. “When’s the interview?”

“This Tuesday—”

“This Tuesday, as in three days from now?” George cuts in. “Is the interview over the phone?”

“Um, I had a preliminary phone interview today and the main one, it’s—” Mara stutters. “It’s in Vegas.”

George blinks at her. “You, you bought a ticket and said you would go without even … telling me about it? This is exactly what I’m talking about, Mara. You don’t treat me like a partner, you—” He snaps his mouth shut.

“George, I haven’t gone yet. I’m telling you now—”

George shakes his head, staring down at his meal.

“Siri, why don’t you tell us how things have been with you since your big retreat? Where did you go today?” Mom says with false enthusiasm. “You’ve been leaving the house from morning till night since you’ve gotten back from Colorado. Where have you been going?”

I aggressively scoop some soup. It flops right off the spoon. “How would you know that, Mom? You’re out all day.”

“You’ve been going into the city,” she says. “What are you up to there?”

I take a giant bite of macaroni sandwich. “Why would you think that?” I say around the food.

“Can you not chew like a cow, and speak independently of your food?”

Gill’s eyes ping between the two of us.

Bits of pasta spray from my mouth as I respond sweetly, “Can you tell me how you would have the slightest idea of my whereabouts?”