Mom was an only child in an Italian family, which is a rarity. I got the feeling she was lonely growing up, and family gatherings were her favorite social outlet. As soon as she was old enough to host, parties became her chosen pastime. She eventually spread her wings and began to use her talents for the better good by organizing charity events. It helped reduce the number of family affairs, so we were all supportive of her endeavors.

The woman came alive at the thought of hosting an event, so aside from a few grumblings under my breath, I hadn’t fought her over the party. One hundred and fifty of our closest friends and family would be joining us to celebrate my graduation.

I was dreading every minute of it.

“Look here. I got Vica moved with her guest over to the Watters’ table,” she explained as she handed me a chart of tables covered with tiny scribbled names. “They own that little bar down in SoHo—the Black Horse or the Purple Pig—something like that. I hear they’re swingers, so it should be fine to put Vica with them. You never know what that woman’s gonna say, and I’d rather not worry about her sitting with anybody important.”

I only half listened to her prattle on as my eyes flitted from one table to the next, hardly registering the names until one particular name grabbed my attention. “Ma, why is Nico’s name on here?” I glared at her incredulously, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

“Ma,” I ground out, still waiting for an explanation.

“You were friends for a long time.” She shrugged, suddenly taking the paper from my hands. “This party is for you; I wanted to have your friends there.” Her tone was overly innocent as she tried to gift wrap what was clearly an overstep of her bounds.

“We haven’t been friends for years—you know that.” I was furious with her and barely able to contain my anger. Seeing his name had instantly conjured images of his face, contorted with disgust and contempt from the last time we spoke. I had assumed it was a phase or some kind of misunderstanding—that he would get over whatever had upset him—and things would go back to normal.

That was seven years ago.

Nothing was ever the same after that day.

Mom looked over at me with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, baby girl. You know I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I released a long, resigned sigh, my anger quickly dissipating at her remorse. “I know, Mom. I’m sure it’ll be fine. He probably won’t even show up.” It was the truth. I hadn’t run into him in seven years, so what were the chances he would actually show up to a party in my honor?

Mom gave a tight smile that looked suspiciously like guilt, but before I could question her, she changed the subject. “Let’s go dress shopping, just you and me. I have time tomorrow, and we haven’t done something together in so long. We can shop and have lunch. We’ll find you something perfect to wear to your party!”