And then reality interrupts.

“Hand her the cornbread bibingka, Liz,” Dad urges.

I refocus. It’s been way too long since I’ve had Nana’s and my favorite dessert. The combination of creamed corn, rice cake, and coconut milk crisped to a light brown fresh from the oven always made my mouth water, especially since Nana adds extra sugar on top. Even a stale, room-temperature one would be amazing right now; the best birthday present ever. I perk up, imagining biting into the sweet, chewy texture.

Mom swallows, eyes wide. “That was for Zoey?”

“Yes!”

She slowly unzips her bedazzled fanny pack again and pokes her finger around.

“I ate it on the airplane,” she confesses. And indeed a few sad crumbs fall out of the pack.

“Did they . . . just try to . . . bribe you with cornbread that doesn’t exist?” Miles says.

“Pretty much,” I answer without thinking.

“What’s that?” Mom asks.

“I can’t believe you ate it,” Miles prompts.

“I can’t believe you ate it,” I mimic dutifully, but the words have no bite.

Time to face facts: I’m not a tough New Yorker.

The name of the restaurant is Lo Busco, Lo Busco, which can mean “I search,” “I look” or “I want.” Pretty sure my search has come to an end. Had I really thought using someone else’s words would change the way my parents treated me? That if I stood up for myself, they’d behave like entirely different people toward me?

“It was a long flight,” Mom mutters defensively, re: the stolen cornbread.

We dig in to our meals—my mushy vegetables are indistinguishable from each other save for the colors. But five minutes later, the waiter brings over a cupcake with a candle poking out.

“Did you order this?”

“No—”

“Is it going to cost more?” Dad harangues the waiter.

“Bought and paid for,” the waiter responds, and leaves us to it. Dad gestures to Mom. “You know I don’t like surprises on my bill. Especially if the icing is made from anything other than fair-trade sugarcane.”

“None of that high-fructose corn syrup for us,” Mom explains.

“You know it’s devastated the farming industry. Between the four billion russet potatoes for McDonald’s and the high-fructose corn syrup on everything else, it’s a wonder any other crops are cultivated,” Dad continues, but I tune him out because I’ve noticed a note beside the cupcake.

“Happy Birthday, from Vlad.”

Maybe I can’t be the person they want me to be. And they can’t be the people I wish they were.

But damn if it doesn’t feel good to laugh.

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

MILES

Zoey is different on the train ride back. It’s possible it has something to do with the two tequila shots I treated us to after her gagluencer parents finally left the girl to enjoy what was left of her birthday in peace.