“Wait, are you . . . is this who I think it is?” He stopped to do a quick Google search. “Dorsey Fitzgerald, as I live and breathe. Net worth seven billion, sitting on a peeling leather couch in the hood?” He blinked and laughed. Liza cringed with secondhand embarrassment. The tone and tenor of Colin’s voice immediately changed. Liza recognized it as the same voice her granny used when she interacted with white people. He pronounced his Rs and kept his vowels flat. He stepped across the room, nearly knocking Bev over to shake Dorsey’s hand. He pumped furiously, but Dorsey couldn’t even be bothered to turn his body in the poor man’s direction.

“What an amazing coincidence! Do you know who I just recently sat down with?”

Dorsey said nothing.

“None other than Christopher De Berg, senator for Virginia!” Colin continued on with no encouragement. “He is giving me so much insight into the political world in DC, important movers and shakers . . . donors.” Colin let the last word hang. The air chilled a few degrees, and Colin laughed to fill in the silence. “Hey, but let’s not talk shop.”

“I think David and I were just leaving, actually.” Dorsey’s tone indicated that this was not a suggestion.

David looked surprised. “Yes. Yes, we have another appointment, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, stay for dinner.” Colin invited them as if it were his house. He pulled a sliver of meat from the plate of cold oxtail. Liza stopped herself from calling it Dorsey’s oxtail. “I’m sure Bev has baked her famous buttermilk pie.”

Bev unwrapped the package of store-bought buttermilk pie and stealthily threw it into the oven.

“We couldn’t possibly,” Dorsey said. He glanced at Liza and held her gaze for just a beat too long to go unnoticed. He broke his gaze and gathered his jacket to leave. He was out of the house before Bev could say goodbye.

Bev huffed. “That man. I’m sorry he’s so damn rude. It pisses me off that a man as nice as David comes with a sack of sad baggage like that!” Bev looked over to Liza. “And what was that look for?”

“What look?” Liza asked. She wasn’t used to her mother paying close attention to her.

“He gave you some kind of look before he left, like you were gum on the bottom of his shoe. I’m going to have to ask David to stop bringing that man by. All of that hair . . . He don’t look professional. Looks like he’s in a rock band or something.”

“Ma,” Janae said. “That’s too far. Dorsey is—”

“What? What is he? Standing over there pacing a hole in my carpet, doesn’t speak to anyone, tells Granny to call him Mr. Fitzgerald, doesn’t even stop to greet Colin, and snarls at Liza on his way out.”

“Thank you, Ma, but I’m fine,” Liza assured her.