As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of Lo Busco, Lo Busco, I find them in the largest, swankiest booth. They sit on the banquette against the wall, cushioned against the red velvet, which will place me solo across from them. Mom’s hand is frozen in a wave, her expression curious and wide-eyed as she tilts her head to the side. Instinctively I wonder who’s caught her eye, because I know it’s not me. Did Miles not give me enough of a head start? Has our cover been blown and she’s wondering if I brought a “date”? The very idea would’ve been hilarious to me yesterday: me and Miles existing anywhere other than Café Crudité. Surely, we’d pop like bubbles if we ever encountered each other in the real world. Yet here we are, more than acquaintances, not quite friends.

Of course, would anyone other than a friend have offered to do something like this? I swallow hard and look behind me. Sure enough, there’s someone there; two someones. They look to be mid-sixties, Cruella de Vil black-and-white hair for him and a feathery pixie cut for her, probably a power couple of some sort, but I don’t recognize them. The maître d’ does, though, and steps out from the podium to greet them and escort them to a table a few down from Mom and Dad’s.

My parents’ heads swivel as one unit to watch them and for the second time tonight I consider bailing on the whole thing. I mean, honestly, what is the point? They perked up more at spotting two strangers than seeing their only kid, and I hate that I refer to myself as a kid around them, that I revert to a six-year-old jumping up and down to get their attention.

I duck my head and barrel toward their table.

“Hi guys, great to see you, I’ll be right back, just gotta . . .” I make some type of swirly motion with my finger that’s supposed to mean “freshen up” but could mean dunk my head in the toilet. Which might be preferable.

In the cramped hallway outside the ladies’ room, I test out my tech connection with Miles.

“Abort, abort,” I whisper.

He chimes in right away, soft in my ear. “Already? What’s going on?”

“Imagine your parents looking past you to see if someone more interesting has entered the womb.”

“Room?”

“I know what I said.”

“Huh.”

That’s one of the reasons I loved working for Mary so much: She never looked at me that way, and she knew actual stars. She was an actual star. Academy Award winners or MacArthur Geniuses could show up at her house and they’d have to wait until our conversation was finished before she’d acknowledge them.

Which is why it hurts so damn much that she’s replaced me.