“A vanilla latte.” He returns it to its place before picking up the next. “A caramel macchiato . . .” Drink two is put back. “Or a green tea lemonade? The coffee drinks are decaf with skim milk.” He waits for my choice and smiles. It’s too warm, too congenial, like he’s spent an exorbitant amount of time perfecting his smile in front of the mirror.

“Your mom took the chai tea latte. She didn’t think you’d want that one.”

My mom smiles at a drink I know she can’t stand.

When I still don’t respond, the mayor holds out his hand again. Richard brings over a plastic grocery bag. “We also brought a Diet Coke and a Sprite, in case you’re not a big coffee drinker.”

“I thought you might take the green tea lemonade,” my mother says with the practiced pretense of manners and class. She’s always been able to turn it on when needed.

The mayor puts the drink in front of me. “All right then . . .” He takes the latte for himself and gives the other to Richard, who returns to the kitchen counter. Richard shrugs and grins and doesn’t touch his drink.

The whole thing is bizarre. The mayor of Chicago treats me like a guest in my own home and offers me one of six different drinks he picked up before coming here. My mom can’t think this is normal either, not that I can tell by her expression.

The mayor takes a sip. “I came over tonight to see how you were doing, Amelia. Saturday was a tough day for our city. For you especially, I’d imagine.”

The ice in my cup is near melted. Only a few flat discs left. While I like green tea lemonade, I can’t bring myself to drink it. “Don’t you have people for that?”

My mom shoots me a warning look.

The mayor smiles. “This is something I wanted to do myself.”

So camera crews could film him being chivalrous, no doubt. It’s something Cullen would do. I’ve never met the mayor. The only thing I know about him is that I don’t like his son. Maybe not a great reason to dislike him, but something in my gut feels off.

I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m managing.”

“That’s an admirable answer. You’re clearly a strong young lady,” he says in a smooth, steady voice. “Like your mother.”

He nods to my mom playing the part of the resilient widow.

“Appearances can be deceiving.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to insult—the mayor? My mom? Myself? This conversation that feels phony for a million different reasons?