“What? It’s a lot of money. No point in pretending like it ain’t. Liza, you can use your plus-one for Colin.”

“No. Nope. I have a plus-one, Ma. Let Deya use hers.”

“No! I’m bringing Derek!” LeDeya protested.

“I have a date too,” Liza said.

“Since when?” Bev smirked. “Chicho, have you seen this date Liza has?”

“Not exactly yet. But I know he’s—” Chicho started, but Bev had already turned away from her.

“Your own best friend hasn’t seen this very real perfect man of yours?” Bev asked.

“No! Dorsey knows him,” Liza shot out. “William Isaiah Curry. WIC.” Okay, they didn’t like each other, but he could at least vouch that WIC was a real person.

Dorsey’s back straightened. “I know of him.” His tone was clipped.

“He’s into, uh, public service and Black empowerment.” Liza muffled the last bit and put a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

“Of course he is.” Dorsey pulled the popcorn string from her other hand and threw it absently around the tree. He inhaled. “Smells like Christmas, doesn’t it?”

Liza flushed. She must have looked like such a bumpkin to him that night. Surely he didn’t have anything to do with David getting the tree? Was the tree for her?

“Liza, go and get some more tinsel from the closet.” Granny directed her granddaughter like a general. Liza padded toward the closet; she threw Dorsey a look over her shoulder, and he wordlessly followed her down the hallway. Part of her wanted to ask about that night at the hotel bar, and why they kept resetting every time they saw each other. Because after the drinks wore off and the sun came back up, they both came tumbling back to their senses. During the day they inhabited the real world—which made this daytime family visit all the more surreal.

“How long have you been seeing WIC?” he said without any preamble.

“Oh, hi, Dorsey, how have you been?”

“Uncomfortable. How long have you been seeing him?”

“Well, we’re not seeing each other . . .” Liza put up air quotes. It was exactly the impression she had meant to give her mother, but it sounded wrong coming from him.

“Can you say in one sentence what you know about WIC?” Dorsey looked more concerned than interested.

“He’s a community organizer . . .” Liza started.

“Who does he work for?”

“For his organization, the Black Israelites.”

“An organization which you—with a women’s studies degree—find no fault with?”

“Not true. An organization is made up of people. You can’t paint everything with a broad brush. For example, I find hella fault with Pemberley Development, and yet here you are.”

“Point taken. A few more questions. What is his organization trying to do?”

“Outbid you on Netherfield.”

Dorsey rolled his eyes. “Netherfield is already mine.” Something about the way he bared his teeth at the word “mine” made Liza avert her gaze.