And when we get off his bike and remove our helmets, he doesn’t seem to be anxious or showing signs that he’s been going through the same mental gymnastics I’ve been experiencing on the ride over here. He’s not even looking at my face. It’s like night and day from the smiling guy who met me in the alley.

I try to forget about it and focus on my surroundings. I can already see across the sidewalk between the house and the garage that the fenced-in backyard is packed with people.

“Come on,” he says, urging me forward with a hand guiding me behind my back—behind, but not quite touching me. “Remember the drill? Nothing much has changed. It’s a serve-yourself kind of deal. People come and go. It’s casual. It’s not usually this many people, so don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaked out.”

“No?”

I glance at his tight eyes, and I remember what he’s said about me being a terrible liar. No point, really. Plus, it’s a relief not to pretend around him. “I’m terrified. Sunday dinners were some of my favorite times of the week when we were young. I love your family. I’ve missed them. But everything has changed, and I’m afraid they won’t accept me anymore. I’m afraid … What if they’ve seen my mom’s photo?”

His face softens. “They haven’t. You think my working-class aunts and uncles move in the same circles as the Goldens across town? They couldn’t care less about anything a dink like Adrian Summers has to say.”

I laugh a little, still mildly nervous but improving.

He knocks his shoulder gently against mine. “Don’t worry. They accept you, because I do. Nothing’s changed.”

That’s not entirely true. The first minute in the backyard is a blur: white fairy lights strung across the top of a wooden pergola; the scent of smoke, grilled meat, and garlic, and my stomach growling with hunger despite my rattled nerves; people joyfully shouting “Yiamas!” while toasting with plastic wine glasses; kids running underfoot. And between all this is Lucky’s name being called out repeatedly as he puts his hand lightly on the small of my back and weaves us between several picnic tables and too many patio chairs to count. He waves at people, nods his chin, laughs at a joke, but keeps leading me past pair after pair of curious eyes until we get to the boss.

Kat Karras.

Sitting at a table, she lifts her head to him the same way he does, a tiny nod of the chin. “Finally. What, you aren’t answering texts anymore? Was afraid you might skip out.”

“I don’t text while I’m driving. And I said it would be after seven.”