“I don’t care what you think,” I cut in. It’s almost a relief to find a target, to distract myself from the minor fact that I’ve most certainly just gotten myself blacklisted from every single future family function and made my mom lose face in front of the only person she feels insecure around. “What are you even still doing here?”

“Waiting,” he says.

I blink. “For what? The wedding’s over.”

“For who,” he corrects me. “Do you know how busy Dr. Linda Shen is? And she must receive hundreds of emails begging her for a letter of recommendation every day, so of course I had to—”

“Hang on. You’re here to see … my aunt?” I demand incredulously. “For a letter of recommendation? Oh my god. Were you even invited to this wedding?”

“I have an invitation to the wedding.”

I don’t miss the subtle distinction. My brows rise.

“Okay, fine, a friend of a friend was invited by your cousin’s husband,” he admits, straightening the cuff of his sleeve. “They weren’t planning on coming, so I asked them to give their invitation to me.”

I add opportunist to the long list of names I’ve saved for Cyrus in my head. It’s probably the most flattering one on there. I toss insensitive asshole in too for good measure, because when the doors swing open and my aunt steps out, Cyrus practically launches himself off the wall in her direction.

“Dr. Linda Shen,” he says, and I swear he just made his voice deeper. “I know you’re busy, but if you have a second, I wanted to—”

My aunt walks right past him as if he doesn’t exist. On any ordinary day, this would be incredible to witness, but any spark of petty glee I feel is quickly stamped out by the fact that my aunt seems determined to ignore my existence too.

Then my mom emerges, and the look on her face makes everything in my body turn cold.

“In the car,” she grits out. “Now.”

CHAPTER THREE

My mom is still fuming when she slams the car door behind her.

I shrivel in my seat, my shoulder pressed to the window for support. “I’m sorry,” I say, even though the words sound too weak, too superficial to my own ears, like trying to fill a gaping hole in a dam with nothing but napkins. “I’m really so extremely sorry. I didn’t mean to curse my cousin or … or ruin the wedding. I just—I forgot the right words—and I feel awful.”

My mom turns on the ignition and grips the steering wheel. “No, I’m sorry,” she tells me.

I blink.

This is new.