The look that says that if you were to drop dead right there, she wouldn’t even care.

Even though I don’t have a teenager of my own, I have stood in front of a room of mostly men who, despite having never written a book in their lives, were convinced that they were destined to become the next great American novelist, and who didn’t have a question, really, but more of a comment.

I can withstand a baseline of disrespect from virtual strangers—I’ve practically trained for it.

“You’re the reporter,” Lena says.

“I am,” I say.

“I read the article.”

“What did you think of it?” I ask.

I can sense everyone at the table sucking in a breath.

“Lena,” Lauren warns, but I wave her off.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Gabe didn’t like it either.”

“That’s not true,” Gabe says as his mother and sister turn to glare at him.

“Trust me,” I say, “I’ve heard far worse. One time I was signing someone’s book for them and they told me I was overrated. A reviewer once wrote that I wasn’t pretty enough to be so angry. My favorite, however, was the ten-paragraph email I got that broke down everything that was wrong with the first essay in my first collection and informed me that I should expect more of the same type of criticism for each following chapter. He had also attached an invoice for the work he’d done and an address where I could send the check.”

Gabe coughs back a laugh.

Lena’s eyes are round, surprised.

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” I tell her. “And it’s okay if you didn’t like it.”

“It wasn’t terrible,” she says, her face red. “Just, like, whatever, okay?”

She pushes away from the table and her chair falls back on the floor. Teddy is immediately on her feet, tail between her legs.

Lena is out of the room before anyone can say anything.

I feel terrible.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not you,” Lauren says. “After her dad died, people were calling the house all the time. Lots of reporters. Not all of them were nice.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Lauren shrugs. “It’s part of the trade-off, I guess. Gabe gets paid a bunch of money to do very little and people want to know about him and his life.”

“Excuse me,” Gabe says. “I do not get paid a bunch of money to do very little. I get paid a ridiculous amount of money to do very little.”

Lauren reaches over and puts her hand on his.

She looks tired.

There’s a buzz and both siblings check their phones.

I watch as Lauren reads the screen, her cheeks growing pink.

Gabe stabs his dinner as she shoves her phone back into her pocket.

“Again?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” she says.